


Chasing Ghosts

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Closeted Character, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sorry about the OCs, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:16:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 52,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: A bonus story of John McDonough's early days prior to the events of the main series.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prologue theme: [Chris Carrabba - It's The End Of The World As We Know It (REM Cover)](https://youtu.be/3WvmHQJoZPo/)

GARRETT

Fort Wainwright, AK

October 22nd, 2077

The alarm sounded in five short, ringing bursts. Groans and cursing erupted along the barrack.

Garrett hadn’t even taken his boots off. After a long day of PT and carting crates for Logistics, nothing had seemed sweeter than the promise of a long, hard sleep. He had just dropped into his bunk fully-clothed when he was interrupted.

 _Of course,_ he sighed into his pillow.

The lights in the barrack flickered on as he ground the heels of his palms into his eyes and tossed back the scratchy military-issued blanket. He swung down from his top bunk and began stripping his fatigues as he made his way into the barrack’s adjoining segment. Each section of housing came complete with a power armor garage. Not all soldiers were issued a suit – just the lucky ones that weren’t good for anything other than muscle. _Armored Battalion 82,_ their unit read on paper _._ Yeah, right. In Anchorage, maybe that meant something noble. But here, being the recipient of a complicated set of armor just meant that you were granted additional haul weight during daily errands.

Wishing he’d given himself a break from those damn shoes, Garrett stepped into his interface suit – an embarrassingly tight thing that left too many soldiers smacking each other on the ass for entertainment. He strode to the line of power armor suits, raking his fingers through his short hair. As he tugged his tactical hood over his head, he joined the other soldiers already suiting up.

Lieutenant Castro thumped a fist against his fusion core, securing it into place. “If Patterson fucking authorized this, it’s gonna mean her ass.”

Garrett didn’t say anything.  Complaining after five minutes of sleep wasn’t high on his agenda.

He spun the dial on the back of his suit. It swung open to accommodate him as he grasped the shoulders and hoisted himself up, an easy enough task for his brawny arms, before swinging his legs into their slots. At five-foot-four, getting into his armor was a bit more challenging for him than for most of the other men, but once in they were all equal in stature and anonymous, an imposing army in faceless armor. The suit sealed after him with a pressurized hiss.

It took him a second to get going. There was always a momentary delay between instigating a movement and the joints in the armor complying with the command. It wasn’t just his; all the suits at Wainwright did this. Their supply was second-hand, units that had already seen combat and had been reissued after the war. Chapters that were still out in the field found themselves limited in both the resources and manpower required to bring each suit up to par. The eggheads would laugh if grunts like him tried to explain how they compensated for faulty wiring by being able to anticipate every movement in advance, planning several seconds ahead of each move. But why should the guys with the office jobs care? The war was over.

The garage door rolled up with a rusty squeal and the armored men rolled out. He tapped the side of his helmet, and amber light spilled out of his headlamp. A mirror image was occurring at the women’s barracks on the other side of the fort, a squad of soldiers on foot with a few suits of armor sprinkled in. Those out of armor snuck a quick cigarette as they all proceeded to their designated locations in an orderly fashion befitting of their training. No one spoke. This was hardly their first nighttime drill and they had all gotten protests out of their systems long ago.

As expected, they largely just milled around the base for a few hours. Those in armor stood at the perimeter while grunts stacked supplies, handed out rations and gambled in the cover of darkness. There wasn’t any snow on the ground yet but that would change in a few weeks. Down on the field, Private Gradney had managed to rig up a brace of a washtub and clothing line to make it look like he was standing at attention. Only the nod of his head gave away that he had fallen asleep. Captain Patterson ran from bunker to bunker, out of her armor, occasionally with papers in hand, her red hair tied back, her mouth grim.

“ _Look at her scurry_ ,” Castro’s voice crackled over Garrett’s speakers. “ _You’d think the Commie’s had landed_.”

“Get off the com,” Garrett replied, too tired to engage in insults directed at his commanding officer. Most of his team deemed Patterson too young for her position. Something about her father being a general at…somewhere, that did some big thing that Garrett hadn’t bothered with remembering. It was what it was, and he didn’t have a say otherwise, so he hadn’t cared.

Garrett had joined too late to see any real action. That made his parents and sisters happy. It beat staying home, getting married out of high school and cranking out kids. He could have been an automotive mechanic like his father, as would be expected had he stayed in St. George, Utah, where he had been born and probably would have died if he hadn’t enlisted. Here, he was securing vault residencies for his sisters in Utah, Nevada, and Phoenix. Doing his part for America and for his folks. But pretty much just running away. The military was good at wrapping that option up in a patriotic bow. 

He was supposed to be stationed in Juno right now. Something about paperwork and too many grunts that wouldn’t go home hogging the beds had resulted in him being rerouted here, to a small, rural military base in the Alaskan countryside. Wainwright was happy to have him for the time being – Garrett was good with a screwdriver and a gun, and one of the few that could get a suit of power armor to work consistently. It wasn’t what he expected, but the work was honest, the pay tolerable, and the meals decent.

The night was inky black. When he checked the timepiece on his display, it was 11:42pm and the alarm was sounding once more. Garrett hoped that he hadn’t fallen asleep in his suit. He spied Gradney caught up in the wash line, woken by the alarm and thrashing.

He turned his head to Castro, up the next hill. He waved an arm. “What’s happening?” he relayed.

Castro shook his head, headlamp flashing as the beam swung. “ _No word. Think it’s a drill_?”

“ _Coms clear. Lamps off_ ,” came Paterson’s voice, overriding the communication system. Garrett slapped his light off.

A faint rumble grew, barely feeding in over his earpiece. Fighter jets roared by overheard. He couldn’t see them, but he knew the sound.

“ _Emergency protocol One-Seven-Echo-Charlie-Niner is in effect_ ,” a voice blared over the fort’s speakers.

No. Not a drill.

Garrett began to sweat in his armor. He was annoyed at the radio silence, desperately wanting to ask what the hell was happening, the question on the mind of every soul on base. There was shuffling down in the field as colleagues paced restlessly. Shortly, a recruit came to his location and handed off a minigun. Garrett hefted it, his sweat cooling and leaving him chilled. 

Hours of silence stretched as nothing happened. Patterson reappeared, this time in her armor.

At 5:17am, the alarm rang for a third time and did not switch off. Garrett had been standing for nine hours and could barely keep his eyes open. He locked the knees of the suit, leaving it in a standing position while he wiggled inside, seeking relief for his tired knees.

The sky was transitioning between black and indigo, shapes becoming distinguishable, when a male voice stating, “ _We are at response protocol MX-CN-Nine-One_ ,” came over his headset.

“ _That’s an affirmative_ ,” he heard Patterson respond.

Garrett swung his head towards Castro, but it was still too dark to see without headlamps. He breathed in and out, concentrating on not hyperventilating.

“MX?” someone on the field shouted, voicing the panic that Garrett had been fighting. “That’s fucking end of the world shit!”

All the lights on the base went out simultaneously as the generators chugged and died. The alarm was cut. An intensely bright flare made his eyes burn. The ground lurched under his armored feet, quaking as he braced his legs and swayed in his suit. Garrett struggled to remain upright; several other armored soldiers toppled. As the light faded, leaving him to blink spots out of his vision, he caught a darker black mass against the blues of morning sky, with molten red at its core. It rose, towering above the landscape, due south of their position.

“Jesus Christ! Was that Anchorage?” someone screamed over his com. “Was that fucking Anchorage?”

Anchorage was over three-hundred and fifty miles away. They’d be safe here; that was the point of having this location. Any action his unit took would be local.

In his earpiece, Patterson’s voice directed, “ _Be advised, squads will be deployed to give aid at nearby civilian locations. Kopec, Gradney, Mata, Castro and Grant, you’ll be accompanying me to Fairbanks_. _Additional teams are as follows_ –”

 _Grant_. That was him. Garrett rumbled down from the hill, keeping the minigun high, out of range of his mechanical legs, each step sending jolts up into his hips.

Following the quake, a couple of armored soldiers were stuck in what the infantry called _a_ _Turtle Situation_ , splayed out on their backs, unable to get up. A cluster of recruits strained to right them,  

Patterson stood in the field with her lamp on. The mushroom cloud over Anchorage loomed large at her back. Their unit of six congregated, and marched the short distance from Fort Wainwright to the town of Fairbanks, three in armor, three without. They traveled in silence, passing a downed vertibird burning in a ditch, likely knocked from the sky during the same EMP pulse that killed the lights on base.

Dawn didn’t break. Instead, the skies lightened into a sickly greenish-gray with pendulous clouds the color of charcoal. Sky, streets, buildings – everything was gray and eerily still.

His unit walked into pandemonium. In the streets, cars were immobile and half of them ablaze. Windows of businesses were smashed, sparkling glass littering sidewalks, Halloween decorations hanging crookedly from eaves. A single Vault-Tec representative was standing on a bench, flanked by two guards, shouting into a bullhorn, as people mobbed him. Garrett felt sick as men pulled on the rep’s sleeves and women shoved babies in his face. Both local officers and the Vault-Tec guards stood with hands on their pistols. Garrett prayed that he wouldn’t have to unload his weapon into the crowd. As his convoy stepped past, he overheard the guards.

“New York?”

“New York, Boston, all of it.”

Trust Vault-Tec to know what the military didn’t.

Patterson held up an arm and they stopped. She addressed them. “Spread out. Help where you can and be wary. Safeties off.”

“Ma’am,” Castro asked. “Did they hit us or did we hit them?”

“I don’t have that information, Castro.”

Garrett stationed himself by a schoolhouse, a heavy rucksack on his back stuffed full of ammunitions, rations and medical supplies. A steady stream of people came in and out, dropping off provisions. The presence of a soldier in full T-51b power armor, wielding a minigun seemed to keep the peace. He could feel it, the tangible sense of tension about to spill over. The air seemed choked by now, thick, and saturated with the ash of pulverized buildings and bodies thrown into the sky. He was thankful that his suit was handling his air flow. The Geiger-counter in his suit clacked angrily.

There was a flood of noise back where his assembly had entered. The representative was no longer standing on the bench and the guards seemed to have vanished. “No more,” the rep was shouting over the bullhorn from someplace that Garrett couldn’t see. “Stand back! Last group!”

A gunshot went off. People scuttled in all directions like cockroaches from light. Castro began screaming over the com in a high-pitched, panicky wail that pierced Garrett’s eardrums. He momentarily switched his headset off to spare himself. Faintly, he could hear Castro’s cries filter in through his helmet.

Garrett abandoned his post and followed the sound, clanking down an emptied street. He pulled around a bend and stopped short.

Private Gradney clung to the back of Castro’s armor, trying to wedge his sidearm in between the plating, underneath an arm. A second shot was fired and Castro crumpled to the ground, falling face first to the pavement, the armor shuddering from the impact.

Garrett took an enormous step backwards, setting the foot of his armor down silently, shielding himself in between two buildings, trying to be as impossibly invisible as he could. From that position, he saw Gradney spinning the wheel at the back of Castro’s armor. The back of the suit blossomed open and Gradney stooped to drag Castro’s body out. Five local men rushed forward, pulling Gradney away. Gradney fired again, the shot wild. A second weapon sounded and the back of Gradney’s head exploded.

“ _Grant, do you see it_?” Patterson’s voice asked through his speakers, an amplified whisper.

“Yeah, I see it.”

More people swarmed Castro’s fallen armor, his body discarded. They shoved and drove fists at each other as the sky thundered, cloud cover shifting into a bright orange hue.

“ _You and I, we have to get out of here. It’s the armor. They think the armor will save them._ ”

 _Will it?_ he wanted to ask. The Wainwright armor had been little more than a pain in the ass so far. At best, it might give them an extra day. “What about Kopec and Mata?”

Patterson didn’t answer. More gunshots could be heard, but he couldn’t gauge from what direction. A steady drilling of automatic fire responded.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“ _On the east road_.”

Garrett slunk out of town the best that he could, his steps slow and cautious. He tried to trick himself into thinking that he was following an order and not escaping due to cowardice or self-preservation.

Patterson had fibbed. She was far to the east, nowhere near the road, almost out of sight. He had to use the sensors in his suit to find her. She was crouched as low as she could get in her armor, assault rifle cradled in her oversized, mechanical hands.

“Orders, ma’am?”

She didn’t answer. Blood was sprayed across the torso of her suit.

“Ma’am?” he repeated.

“ _Lines are down_ ,” she said in a clipped voice, as if she hadn’t hesitated. “ _Anchorage is lost. Fort Greely_?”

Her voice had wavered. He wasn’t sure if she had turned the last syllable up. His brows knotted beneath his visor. “Are you…asking me or telling me?”

“ _Telling_.” She nodded, as if making up her mind. “ _We make for Fort Greely_. _We can regroup and request additional support_.”

Keeping off the roads and out of sight slowed their progress, costing time they didn’t have. Adding to their journey was the additional element of stopping and vomiting every hour. He stole glances of Patterson whenever she took her helmet off to heave by the side of the road. The skin on her face had reddened significantly before blistering and peeling. He knew that his face looked the same.  Garrett had been well trained – he knew what it was. RadAway kept the worst of the radiation sickness at bay but the illness halted most of their progress. When they stopped for the night, his skin had begun to adhere to the inside of his body-hugging interface suit.

At dawn, he tried to relieve Patterson of her shift only to find her dead in her suit. He pried the fusion core from her back, shoving it in his pack before deserting her. It was only later he realized that he hadn’t taken her one of her tags. 

Torn between looking for help, aiding survivors, or keeping himself out of sight, Garrett lost the path to Greely. He busied himself with salvaging fusion cores from cars to extend the life of his armor. The few survivors that stumbled upon him were ushered away with the barrel of his minigun.

Days later, when a black rain began to shower him, seeping down through the seams in his plating, he heard that triple beep warning of his final fusion core running low. That eerie black rain poured over him as he exited his armor. His skin was clammy with wet blood that pooled on the inside of his interface suit. A climbing fever was making him delirious. His face hurt, and it was all he could do to keep his fingers out of a gaping hole that was tunneling through one of his cheeks. The tip of his nose had long gone numb.

Without his armor, he looked like any other idiot who had been unlucky enough to survive the initial blast. Any idiot in a military-issued interface suit. And carrying a minigun. And dripping blood from his orifices – although that part was probably normal now.

“What the _FUUUUUUUCK_!?” he shouted at the pelting rain. The extra leeway that his armor had bought him was over and he should be dead. His body was melting into a gooey mess, the pain of it causing him teeter on the edge of madness, making thoughts fuzzy and hard to grasp. His sidearm was tempting him to wedge a bullet in his brain. Being alive just meant that he had to keep going, to find some destination.

He yanked the dying fusion core out of his armor and added it to his pack on impulse, not really knowing why. When he changed out of his gear, several layers of his skin sloughed off in the process. No one was around to hear how he screamed when that happened. Raw muscle exposed to the hammering, soot-filled rain, he hoped to God that he would die soon enough, releasing him from this torment. He stared at his hands, his palms blood-slick and shaking. He didn’t dare twist his ring to get it off, fearing that he’d lose a finger.A clunky band of black onyx and gold, his United States Military Academy class ring had once been his most prized possession. Now, it seemed a silly thing to be concerned with.

Was he a defector? Did that even matter?

Out of his armor, with that dark rain showering him, he felt…better? That made little sense. He should be a puddle of plasma by now. But either he’d stopped bleeding or the rain had washed him clean. While the burning in what was left of his skin subsided, he donned his fatigues and strapped his sidearm to one leg.

Heading vaguely south, Garrett staggered down a cracked and vacant stretch of highway, his pack over one shoulder, dragging his minigun by the handle behind him, its barrel scraping the pavement. He stopped at a Red Rocket gas station as a thunderstorm roiled by, flashing forks of red, green, and yellow lightning. The entire world was on fire, firestorms feeding on themselves, churning black carbon into the air.  

He staggered to a state map, pinned up on a wall over a rack of snack cakes. South. He’d made it far south of Greely. Going…where? He was headed…

Home. He was headed home.

Really? A feeble laugh tore at his burning lungs. His subconscious was urging him to walk to St. George, Utah, from Alaska? What was he thinking? He wasn’t. An involuntary response. He scratched at his hair in frustration, knocking most of the strands free and gathering chunks of scalp under his fingernails.

Leaning tiredly against a wall, he let his head loll for a moment, granting himself a moment to wallow in despair. When his gaze rose, he caught sight of something buried under a stack of tires outside. Venturing back out into the storm, he knocked the tires aside and righted a discarded Lone Wanderer motorcycle. Wheeling it back into the garage, he checked it over. The automatic starter was fried, as expected, but the engine was intact.

It took Garrett a week and a half, and many failed attempts, to get it right. Surprisingly, he didn’t die in the meantime. When he finally twisted the nearly-depleted fusion core into place amid battery packs and tangles of unmarked wires, he was _fairly certain_ that the entire thing wouldn’t explode. Punching the ignition, he watched as the motorcycle shuddered to life, spouting flames out of the back of the engine. Cheering, he snorted a laugh through the ruins of his nose.

He killed the engine before the core could be sapped entirely. After loading what he could, he strapped the minigun onto the back of the vehicle, securing it with seat belts. He had both transportation and protection, which wasn’t half bad. 

The road would be difficult and he might have to do things he’d regret, but Garrett was going to make it. He was going to make it home.


	2. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for this episode: [Shawn James -That's Life -Frank Sinatra Cover](https://youtu.be/OiJJSY5uBvQ/)

JOHN

Queens, NY

August 14th, 2269

The sky was overcast, a faint greenish tinge hugging the underbellies of clouds. Shattered husks of tall buildings, not quite equaling the skyscrapers on the other side of the water, folded in on John from all sides. Out at sea, on his family’s island, he had grown up in the sun and salt air, where rocky beaches led to never-ending stretches of ocean. Inland, the toxic atmosphere was thick with particles of soot and ash churned up from an ever-present radstorm that hung over the Manhattan Crater like a tapestry.

John felt nominally safer this side of the river, but just barely. The streets were quiet and lonely. The former gave him room to breathe; the silence lacked the rumble of enormous footsteps and the sound of gunfire. The latter made John’s chest constrict, the vacant place at his side too tangible and painful.

Thinner than he’d ever been, he had been surviving off what he could forage from rusted vending machines and pilfer from convenience store shelves. His nights were spent sleeping in locked closets and his days cautiously picking his way northeast.

He paused in the paltry safety of a bus stop shelter to unfold a newly acquired piece of paper. Fortunate enough to stuff his pockets full of currency before leaving home, his first purchase had been from a woman sitting at the entrance to a train station. Resembling a pile of dirty rags, she had surprised him by reaching a knobby-wristed hand to snag his pant leg as he passed, asking, “You know where you’re going, sonny?” In his shock-hazed bubble, he hadn’t.

Now, he diligently consulted a gaudy tourist map with a picture of a round, red apple in the upper cover, over which read _I heart symbol NY!_ The heart was also red. Over the original artwork detailing the layout of the city, additional mapping had been drawn in with _X_ s over unhospitable areas and the names of newer locations scribbled in rushed font. His attention was focused on a chalk-drawn circle with an arrow pointing at it. Port City – the largest settlement in the outer boroughs, or so the merchant had told him. If there was any chance of him finding aid, it would be there.

He carefully refolded the paper, tucking it into his backpack. A breeze tugged at his shaggy blonde hair, which was just long enough to lick over his ears and get in his eyes. His loafers were worn and the hems of his pants torn, curtesy of the Downtown debacle. A few smears of his own blood streaked his polo.

Shifting the weight of his pack, he continued his long walk up the train tracks, clutching a reconstructed blunderbuss in anxious hands. He squeezed past a derailed train car with a faded number _7_ plastered in the window, the loosened platform swaying and squealing underfoot, causing him to pause in a fleeting moment of terror with outstretched arms. The odds of this being the day that the elevated structure failed were as good as any other. He dealt with the journey as best as he could, holding his breath through nerve-racking darkened tunnels and around fallen sections of the track, following signage. If nothing else, the city of New York had been diligent in their labeling.

Edging around perilous drops, John fought to keep his focus on the track. All around him, bomb-scorched buildings leaned on each other for support in an asymmetrical world that was crushed and burned. It looked as if great bites had been taken out of buildings, entire sections missing, pitted by explosions that had occurred before or after the war.

He hopped off at a place called _Flushing_ , which seemed like a dumb name. Someone sharing John’s humor had painted a crude picture of a toilet next to the sign. He consulted the map once more and followed the appropriate avenues, rubble crunching underfoot.

Clashing metal sent him scrambling to ready his blunderbuss. He probably should have chosen a less complicated weapon but pickings had been slim and he had rushed. Whirling about as he searched for the source of the noise, he saw a radrat the size of a dog dart out of an alley. It spotted him and gave a screeching hiss before slithering into a sewer entrance at the curb. 

He lowered his gun. Nothing else moved. Only the sounds of whistling wind and the scrape of shifting debris accompanied him. Most of the buildings in the boroughs were made from brick and stone, not in the art deco style of the city, and without rebar to stabilize the structures. An unfettered multitude of loose bricks had cascaded into the streets, crushing cars and buses, burying them until the vehicles were barely visible. Collapsed buildings of sandwiched floors and exposed joists flanked him of either side, torn awnings swaying in the breeze. Enormous letters, once part of grand marquees, had crashed to street level, leaving the original wordage indecipherable. He knew that he was nearing Port City when he spotted the tail end of an airplane jutting out of an apartment complex.

John was overcome with unexpected grief at the sight of a jewelry store display, the glass window protecting its contents still intact save for single crack that ran diagonally across the pane. Coming to a halt, he blew a shaky breath. Gruesome memories from Downtown played on the backdrop of his mind, the sound of tearing human flesh prevailing above all else.    

He brought the butt of his blunderbuss down with both hands, smashing the broad glass window. The shop’s facing shattered, spilling tiny, glittering fragments over the sidewalk. He stuffed his gun in his pack, readjusted the straps and stepped into the windowfront display, imprudently leaving his back to the street. Pouring over the selection, he picked a wide titanium band, trying it on each finger under he found a perfect fit on the right pointer. His parents’ wedding rings were worn on the first and middle fingers of his left hand; they were dead and no longer required them. He flexed his fists to test the sensation, as a loss of dexterity could cost him his life. Satisfied, he retrieved his weapon and backed through the broken storefront window, into the street.

“Heya, fella! Whatcha lookin’ for?” someone shouted, causing John to freeze. “You need adhesive? Surgical tubing? Eh, eh? I got it all!”

A middle-aged man, probably alerted by the sound of breaking glass, gestured at him from between buildings to come closer. He winked and opened his long coat. Rolls of duct tape and rows of pocket watches hung from the lining, with a collection of odds and ends tied in between. He stepped from the alley, clanging when he moved, too many metal tines knocking.

John swallowed, uncertain of strangers, particularly peddlers. “I’m fine. Headed to the city.”

“Oh, yes? Good, good.” The trader pointed up. “Ya see that pennant?”

John followed the angle to where a red sheet flapped in the breeze atop a townhouse. “Yeah…”

“Two blocks north from there.”

Some startled tension eased from John’s shoulders. He was closer than he’d thought. “Oh. Thanks.” He turned to follow the banner.

“Fifty caps,” the man called after him.

Swinging back, John spat, “What?”

“For directions. Fifty caps.”

John felt his brows knit. “I don’t…what does that mean?”

“Fifty bottlecaps.” The man fidgeted. “Times is tough, man. Don’t make me ask again.” His eyes, previously open and disarming, took on a slanted, dangerous quality. John was certain that this guy had a gun somewhere on his person.

With one palm open and aloft, John reached around to the side pocket of his pack. He tossed the trader a wrapped stack of pre-war bills. “We good?”

The man flipped through the stack, touching his tongue to the money. He smacked his lips and nodded.

John half-slunk, half-ran for an entire block, fearful of another run-in with strangers. He realized that the thought was ludicrous, as his destination was a sizable community. His pounding heart slowed when he spotted a sign saying, _LGA,_ with a pictograph of an airplane next to it.

He could smell the ocean as Port City came into view. Faded posters in the shells of bus stops read, _Welcome to LaGuardia Airport_. It was…less impressive than he’d imagined. Mostly intact but only a few stories tall, the airport seemed squat and dull. Perhaps growing up in a towering, if crumbling, copper statue had left him bias. 

A blue control tower had fallen, crushing only one portion of the building. In the wide boulevard between a towering parking lot and the main structure, cars had been tipped on their sides, either from the initial blasts the day the bombs fell or by survivors high on drugs. It was impossible to tell. Barbed wire and protruding rifle barrels stuck out over the tops and around the sides. Now and again, John would catch sight of a helmet or the flash of metal armor around a fender. 

“Business or pleasure?” a voice crackled over a megaphone.  

John glanced around, trying to pinpoint where the voice had come from and if the question was meant for him. “I…buh…business?” he answered, feeling that the appropriate thing to do was to throw his hands up in submission.

Someone in body armor topped off with a gas mask stepped out from behind one of the tilted vehicles, waving John towards the building’s entrance with the muzzle of their rifle. The sickly green of color of Manhattan was reflected in the mask’s plastic lenses.

With careful steps, John passed under a sign that read Drop Off. Well, now it read _Fuck_ Off, but it was the entrance into the terminal. Once inside, he met up a short cluster of sentries that were digging though packs and weighted carts, likely inspecting for items that didn’t belong there.

A burly guard in a dented flight helmet and a padded vest that had _Security_ written on it in bright yellow lettering took John’s backpack and unzipped it, tilting a shade-less lamp on a tall base over to peer inside of it. “Anything to declare, kid?” he asked.

 _I’m probably an idiot_ , John wanted to announce in response, but shook his head instead. He felt dim and ill-prepared for whatever was waiting for him inside of the airport. Not for the first time, a voice in his head screamed for him to go home. But he couldn’t do that, couldn’t tell his neighbors, _Sorry about your son and too bad about your daughter_. He wasn’t ready. He might never be ready.

After he had been waved through, John re-shouldered his pack and followed a row of fat tallow candles lining a sizeable walkway, leading him deeper into a dank terminal. He felt antsy, waiting for the relief of bright fluorescent lighting and clean floors and the promise of returning to his mission properly supplied and assisted. Soon, the corridor ended abruptly and the epicenter of Port City sprawled before him. He stopped and stared, his mouth falling open before catching himself and snapping it shut.

Instead of the thriving city John had been expecting, Port City seemed like more of an indoor shanty town than a metropolis. The interior stretched several levels high, escalators crisscrossing both far sides of the atrium. A number of punctures in the roof allowed for ashen spots of daylight to be seen, the beams not strong enough to cut through the pervasive gloom that settled over the city. The central area was deeply shadowed, fire barrels and oil lanterns casting amber pools of light that didn’t extend far. In the upper levels, a vast number of ramshackle houses had been constructed atop one another, apartments made of cardboard walls with draped tarps serving as doors. Leading down from there, he found residents carrying supplies up and down the stationary escalators. Some citizens were draped over the railing, cigarettes in hand and calling down to the lower levels.

On the ground floor, vendors were hard at work in their stalls, a semi-circle of them forming a marketplace of sorts. Pieces of aircraft had been gutted and hauled inside, the panels and seating broken down for shelter and storefront partitions. At what had to be a café, oxygen masks still dangled over rows of diners taking in a meal of skewered meat while seated in an exposed section of cabin. Prostitutes in leather and torn stockings lounged under an escalator, illuminated by the light of a single red bulb.

The entire place stank of too many people, cigarettes and despair.

John had the suspicion that, despite the light layer of grime on his clothes, his overall cleanliness made him conspicuous. The occupants of Port City were wearing varying types of layered apparel, stained cotton and torn canvas coupled with the remnants of military fatigues and metal adornments. The tattered sections of many of the pieces had been stitched together with bailing wire or shoelaces, holding the mismatched pieces of makeshift clothing together.

As John stepped into the town square, his weapon stowed and clutching the straps of his pack with whitened knuckles, a voice above him stated, “Pen’s in the back if you’re here to buy a ghoul.”

Craning his neck to look up, John startled at the comment, unsure of what anything in that sentence meant. A rotund man sat on a rickety-looking platform painted white and red, a lifeguard perch from another time. Even higher, a sign reading _Baggage Claim_ hung from the cracked ceiling.

“What do you mean buy a…buy a what?” John stammered.

The big man shrugged, shifting a bullhorn in his lap. “Local rot-bags that wander in. Folks ain’t too pleased to look at those burned-up faces, so we put ‘em to work. Wanna purchase or place a bet? Time’s runnin’ out.”

John shook his swimming head.

The man dismissed him with another shrug and lifted the bullhorn into the air, sounding one long, piercing blast. Another sounded from the opposite side of the tall room. There was a clamor as those previously leaning over rails or occupying escalators raised their voices in excitement. Even a few of the whores stepped out of the shadows to inch closer.

There came a rumble of noise as a wide belt at the center of the room jerked into rotation. John, in his marvel at the upper sections of Port City, hadn’t noticed it. Now, he realized that it was hard to miss. The waist-high belt must have stretched thirty-feet long and connected with two large cages at either side. Affixed to the belt itself were steel spikes, which slanted at intersecting angles, providing a barrier between a flat, elevated median and airport floor, creating a type of raised arena. Above the center of the enclosure blinked a sign that said, _Baggage Claim 1_ , in bright red neon.

A third blast sounded off a bullhorn and one of the cages slid open. John felt himself jerk backwards as six things that looked to be animated cadavers threw themselves into the ring. A mockery of tattered clothes hung from their emaciated bodies as their jaws snapped, their eyes pinpricks of otherworldly yellow-gold. They shambled for a bit, hissing and sniffing the air.

For several moments, nothing happened. A few people talked in hushed voices and, somewhere, a child cried.

The bullhorn sounded for a fourth time. The second cage door opened. A couple of airport personal jammed long prods into the pen and blue sparks flew.

Edging backwards out of the cage, an armored man stumbled up onto the raised midsection. Only…it wasn’t a man. Maybe once it had been, but now the thing seemed to bridge two worlds, not quite human and not quite the same as those vicious corpses. John drew nearer, narrowing his eyes in fascination and confusion. The ‘ghoul’, as the host had called it, had only a single milky eye, the other either gouged out some time ago or had melted into its face **.** The nose was gone, leaving a gap in the center of its face and scars covered every inch of visible skin. It wore sections of corroded metal armor with spikes and screws pointing out at wicked angles, the angular shoulder pauldrons rusty spears waiting to catch on flesh. In its hands hung a length of weighty chain.

One of the handler shoved a metal rod sharpened to a spear point through the panels, jamming the lance into the armored ghoul’s thigh, sliding it between the plating. Bellowing, it whipped around, lashing its chain against the wall, the clatter of metal on metal swallowed up by a swelling cheer from onlookers. Dark blood oozed down the ghoul’s leg as it stepped back from the wall. Shoulders hunching, it turned to face its opponents.

The roars that tore loose from their throats were high-pitched and savage. As a pack, they swarmed the ghoul. It was probably the scent of blood that did it, but those previously sluggish zombies were now frenzied. To its credit, the ghoul was a decent fighter with that chain. The heavy links crushed a pair of thinly-boned skulls and left another crashing down with legs paralysed. The remaining trio circled, each trying to fling itself at the ghoul, ragged claws tearing at armor and disfigured flesh alike.   

John felt sickened and entranced watching this thing fight for its life. Gaining the upper hand, the ghoul was consistent at driving his attackers back, all the while avoiding the whirling spikes set into the revolving baggage belt. It seemed as if the ghoul would be the one to walk away from this, if only to go back to its cage and wait to fight another day. The crowd shouted, booing and throwing whatever was at hand into the ring. Pausing in the battle to address its audience, the ghoul shouted back at them, its victory cry sounding almost human.

In that unfortunate moment, the forgotten shambler with the broken back struck, swinging gnarled, claw-tipped fingers at the back of the ghoul’s knees. With an agonizing yelp, the ghoul pitched to the side, losing its equilibrium. In a mad flurry to escape slashing claws and snapping teeth, it tumbled down from the raised median and stopped only after it had been impaled through an unprotected forearm by one of the conveyor belt spikes. Trapped, the mobile trio of monsters fell on it, tearing it apart in spouts of thick, dark blood and entrail chunks. The howling cries of the dying ghoul were short-lived.

The roar of the crowd grew to deafening proportions as John struggled to swallow bile. Feeling hot in the face, he faded back from the ring of onlookers as handlers drove the surviving demons back into their cage. The slam of a rifle butt to the head ended the prone one. It was grizzly work to remove the body of the dead ghoul. That one eye was still open, staring hauntingly across the arena.

John began to question everything – his journey, his mission, what on Earth he was hoping to find here. He had expected civilization, law, and a reliable hierarchy. There seemed to be only suffering housed here, with a perverse sense of entertainment to break up meaningless existence.

From the contender cage, another ghoul clicked its tongue at John, as if calling a dog. It stuck wiggling fingers through the slots and called, “Hey! Hey, buddy! Help a guy out?”

It could talk.

John was intrigued, but this was the second time that day that someone unknown had called for his attention. He bristled, wary as he stopped. He ventured to take a step closer to the cardboard wall. Spying through a gap only a few inches wide, he could see that the thing stood with it face pressed to the barrier. The signaling ghoul had a hole in its cheek, an uneven tear though which John could spot teeth. Twisting its wrist, it snaked a hand out of the cell to extend it.

“Garrett Grant,” it introduced itself in a voice that was as torn and rough as the rest of it. “Two _R_ s, two _T_ s. Well…the first name, not the second.”

It could talk _and_ it had a name.

“John McDonough.” Taking ahold of the offered hand, he gave it a swift shake. The hand felt strange in his, firmer than he’d expected and not at all wet with rot, the raised scars stiff and the browned skin too warm.

Speaking quickly, the ghoul said, “Look, you saw what happened to the other guy. As noble as it might seem to sacrifice myself as the chief source of entertainment for sadistic smoothies, I’d rather that not be me next.” That was a pause, a tense moment where the ghoul sank his teeth into what remained of its lower lip before adding in a desperate hush, “I’d owe you.”

John thought hard, revulsion from the previous scene still twisting in his gut. There was an honest quality within the ghoul’s red-rimmed eyes that made John suspect that it might actually wait a few days before slitting his throat in the night. The point of all this, of the fear and the doubt that had been his constant companions since leaving Downtown, had been to find someone. Someone expendable and definitely not a friend. The last friend to accompany him had been eaten.

Gulping, John jerked a nod. “Deal. What do I have to do?”


	3. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for this episode: [House Of The Rising Sun (Cover) by Heavy Young Heathens](https://youtu.be/DHkg0OEftVU/)

GARRETT

Port City, NY

August 14th, 2269

“You’re from a vault, right?”

The kid gave him a skittish glance through the barrier between them, pulling the straps of his backpack closer across his narrow chest. “Why’d you say that?”

“Well, you seem kinda lost,” Garrett noted, then waved a finger in front of his mouth. “And your teeth are way too nice for you to be a scavver.”

Not meeting his eyes, John seemed to scramble for words, saying, “Oh. Uh, yeah. You got me.”

Boy, the guy was young, clearly out of his depth and wide-eyed in a way that got vaulties killed fast. The air threatened to escape from Garrett’s plan **.** But this might be his only shot.

In a hoarse undertone, Garrett said, “I’ve been stuck in here long enough to know that there are two ways that ghouls make it out – either in gory mess that takes hours to scrape up or walking out on some human’s arm. You’ve got to buy me.” He frowned, keeping hope at bay with cold logic. “Uh…can you?” It all depended on where John was from, as some vaults had access to vast monetary stashes.

John gave a simple nod. “Yeah. Pretty sure I can.” He turned and stalked off towards the barker in the lifeguard roost.

Garrett following the kid alongside the cage wall as far as he could, peering through gaps in the paneling, eyes glued to what might be his only chance at escape, feeling time tick by.

He slumped against the wall, his gear shifting as it grated on the metal partition. Garrett’s base layer was military fatigues – pants and a shirt with the sleeves torn off. In his travels, he had found a pair of tall boots with a series of buckles running up his shins. None of his armor matched. He wore thick, sturdy polymer thigh guards and knee plates, a crosswise metal pauldron that ran across his chest and over his right shoulder, sheathing his entire arm. He wore a leather bracer on the opposite arm, complete with fingerless glove. There was a camouflage-print bandana tied over his head and a Ripper strapped to one calf, an old favorite in his day, and the one weapon he’d been permitted to keep.

Through the narrow gaps of paneling that made up his cage, he caught fleeting glimpses of John as he wove through the vendor stalls. Garrett couldn’t hear the conversation, but the kid had fallen into in hushed tones with one of the merchants. After some back and forth haggling, the merchant transferred a heavy bag into John’s pale hands.

In a determined march, John strode back, stopping at the base of the lifeguard platform housing the man with the bullhorn. John upended the bag, a grand quantity of caps spilling at his feet. “I’d say I just purchased one ghoul,” he announced.

Briefly stunned at seeing that many caps all at once, Garrett gathered himself and grinned, feeling skin pull taut across his face.

The man hopped down from his perch and toed the pile of bottlecaps, spreading the wealth around as if counting it. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers, gesturing at Garrett’s holding pen. Two guys leapt up to unchain the gate. Those few citizens watching the exchange began booing, their sounds of protest echoing in the large chamber of baggage claim. Freed, Garrett stepped through the open gate and tossed kisses to his jeering audience.

Garrett raised a brow ridge at John as they approached each other. “Did that vault of yours happen to be a bank?” he joked.

Looking cagey, John shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” Looking Garrett up and down, he frowned as if disappointed. “I thought you’d be taller.”                                                                                                  

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Garrett mumbled. Timeworn, gnarled and still short.

Although the jeering had ceased, Garrett felt unease tickling his spine. He shifted attention to the man in the tower, who was now on his knees, trying to scoop caps back into the bag John had discarded. Shifty eyes were all around them, hungry and with that undeniable sense of danger that came with watching a grenade fall.

He moved closer to John, slinging an arm around his neck in what he hoped looked like an affable motion and pulling him in.“They’re gonna follow you out,” he whispered in the smoothskin’s ear. “They’re gonna try and jump you for whatever voodoo you just used to produce that many caps without a trade. Won’t do it here, that’s bad for business. So, for the next ten minutes, you’re gonna be my best friend.”

John wasn’t entirely dimwitted. He nodded and kept his mouth shut.

Voices had become muted and attention was trained on them. It was a tense stroll out, Garrett’s forearm practically pressed to John’s throat, ready to position him should things turn hairy. His free hand flipped his Ripper out of its sheath, finger ready to set the chain buzzing. Garrett kept his eyes on the dirty people lining their path. He might be small, but he was well-muscled. Squaring his shoulders, he put controlled tension on display. Nobody liked to provoke an edgy ghoul.

“Why were you here?” John asked as they walked, the vibrations in his voice tangible against Garrett’s wrist.

He cast John a momentary glance. “Nobody bothered with the usual ‘ _No Ghouls Allowed’_ signs. My mistake, thinking I could just walk in and restock like a normal person. Whole place fell on me and I found myself in a box.”

In response, John cast dark scowls at the people of Port City, passing obvious judgement. Good for him. The kid was alright.  

Outside, they were met by varying shades of gray, sunlight over New York state a distant memory. The sudden smell of salt air startled Garrett, as it always might. Plains-born and two centuries spent inland, taking in the sounds and scents of the ocean was a foreign experience to him.

A short conversation broke out behind them. Garrett twisted his neck to see that two residents had wandered outside, not taking the hint to keep away. The two were trading words with the guards at the car-tipped barrier, no doubt telling them to either join or ignore what was about to happen.

Garrett tugged John towards the parking garage and off the main thoroughfare, placing concrete between them and the possible rifle fire of the guards. “You ever been in a fight?” he asked.

“Not like this,” John answered. “Not with people.” He was scrambling to ready his blunderbuss, ammo rolling in his hand. Garrett doubted that he even knew how to load that ridiculous relic.

On cue, those two men appeared at the mouth of the garage, one brandishing a revolver, the other steadying a shotgun. “We just want the kid,” one growled. “Take off, rotter.” They broke and circled, pressing in with leveled weapons, Garrett and John stepping backwards until they bumped into each other.

“Keep at my side,” Garrett instructed, flicking the switch on his Ripper. The steady buzz of the chain filled the air.

There was a flash of light, and gunpowder billowed as John fired first. Not that he actually managed to hit anything, but the deafening sound gave them a brief advantage. These men were scroungers, not fighters, dressed in rags instead of armor and their folly was in being too close. As they jolted at the noise, Garrett lunged, slashing the Ripper upwards in a diagonal swipe that caught the one with the shotgun across the chest and nicked his throat. The man went down, hand pressed to the wound on his neck, mouth open in shock.

A wild shot went off. Garrett didn’t feel an impact and whirled to face John. His weapon empty, John had flipped it, using the stock to pummel his attacker. Through nothing but luck, he brought the blunderbuss down on the second man’s wrist, sending the revolver spinning out of reach.

Garrett took two wide steps and pivoted, sinking to a knee and swiping at the back of the second man’s legs, sawing clean through to the back of his kneecaps. This one fell screaming. Adrenaline still surging, Garrett switched the Ripper off and rose, asking, “You hit?”

Huffing, John shook his head, watching the men writhe on the concrete floor. They were bloodied and stunned, but still alive.

After a swift search, Garrett located the dropped revolver and moved to stand over the man with the bleeding neck.

“Wait!” John shouted, holding a hand up. His expression was racked with doubt. “Do you have to kill them?”

Garrett narrowed one eye at him before turning attention to their attackers. He fired a single shot and stepped over to the next man. He fired another shot. It was over. He slipped the revolver into an empty holster at his thigh. “Never leave anything open-ended,” he growled.

John continued to look white-faced and upset as Garrett also claimed the shotgun.

They left the garage before Port City guards could come to investigate. Past the terminal onramp and a few blocks over, Garrett allowed for his guard to lower. The adrenal crash made him feel winded. And ancient. 

He faced John and feigned levity, bouncing on his toes, shotgun balanced over his shoulder. He nodded with a tight-lipped smile. “Well…bye.” With that, he turned and marched off, waving over his shoulder. “Thanks for springing me!”

As predicted, John panicked and chased him down, shouting, “Wait! That wasn’t the deal!”

“You’re cute, but dumb as a headless Brahmin. I’m not a genie in a bottle, granting you wishes. I’ve got my own life to take care of. I repaid my debt by not immediately ditching you. Go home.” He hoped that he wasn’t going to have to kill the kid to get away. But being saddled with someone as green and clueless as John could mean death in the Wastes.

“I need you!” John’s voice was breathless with desperation. “I need help!”

“I’ll say.” Garrett’s pace didn’t falter as he picked his way down an embankment, headed for the waterfront. He tried to get his bearings, using landmarks to direct his path. Too much time had passed. Weeks, maybe? It had been hard to tell. For all he knew, all his equipment had already been confiscated or deconstructed for materials.

John snagged Garrett’s arm and jerked on it, causing him to stumble and he glared back at the kid. Desperation had crept into John’s eyes. For the first time, Garrett noticed how tired he looked. His eyes carried some dark baggage and his shoulders were bowed. His hazel eyes were dragging their gaze over Garrett’s clothes, particularly his drab pants and shirt. “You were a solider, weren’t you? Before…before the war?”

Garrett snorted in offense. “Clearly, they’ve just cracked your vault open. You can’t just come right out and ask a ghoul if they’re pre-war. Christ. Rude.” He twisted his arm free. “Yeah. I was a solider. Odds are if you’re a ghoul, you were around before the war. And if you were a fella, you’d served.”

John’s worried eyes had locked onto Garrett’s. “Aren’t you supposed to do the right thing?” John inquired. “Help the helpless and all that? Be the better man?”

It had been ages since anyone had referred to Garrett as a man and not a thing. The word made something heavy settle in his chest. Although it took a minute, Garrett realized what the feeling was. Shame. He hadn’t felt proper shame in quite a while.

Toeing the edge between disgust and genuine confusion, John asked, “And now? What do you do – just live?”

Garrett frowned. “Of course I live.”

“For what reason? You could have changed out of that uniform at any time. You didn’t.”

He fell silent. What was there to say? _I don’t wanna die? I have to keep moving?_ The days and decades all blended and he couldn’t clearly recall the last time he cared about his direction or followed a cause. His actions were all out of habit and not a conscious decision. With a sickening thought, he wondered if that was how ferals operated.

“It’ll be two days, tops,” John promised, nerves getting the better of his voice and making it crackle. “I don’t have time to find someone better.”

“Wow, thanks.” Garrett’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You sure know how to sell.”

“And you promised.”

That was truth. He had.

“And I can pay you.”

Ding, ding, ding. “Alright, alright. Whine, whine. But I gotta pick something up first.”

He started his march again, John falling into step behind him. They passed under an overpass clogged with debris and stagnant, glowing water. Garrett kept his sightline trained upwards, tracking the cityscape, using buildings as compass markers. He remained well aware of his periphery, braced for the chatter of raiders or sudden movement from the lanes between buildings.    

They had been traveling for some time, the crash of waves growing louder, when John said, “Sorry about your friend.”

Garrett brought his gaze down and sneered at him. “That other guy in the pit? He wasn’t my – dude…don’t assume that all ghouls know each other. Can’t believe you said that. What a smoothie remark…”

“That wasn’t – I didn’t mean –”

The rounded, mossy hump of a mirelurk blocked their path. Garrett kicked a tin can at the beast, causing it to whirl towards them. He unloaded buckshot into its face and the thing slumped down, dead.

He shouldered the shotgun once more, asking, “So, what do you need? Somebody piss you off and need to eat a bullet, or am I ripping off a settlement?” Outside of indentured servitude, being a thug was the easiest job for a ghoul. They were expected to be ruthless bastards.

Still stunned by their close encounter, John was distracted, staring at the mirelurk’s still twitching claws. “What? No!” He sounded insulted by the idea. “I…I need a guard, an assistant.”

“You want me to – what – play Vault-Tec tour guide?” Garrett pondered, resuming his trail down a byway.

“No. I need to go into Downtown.”

Garrett stopped so suddenly that John slammed into him from behind. Tension returning to his body, he scowled at the kid. “Nobody goes Downtown.”

His glare must have burned because John took a hasty step back. “I’ve already been there. But…I wasn’t alone when I went.”

“Bet you weren’t,” Garrett snarked. “How’d that go for you?”

“He…didn’t make it.”

Garrett recommenced his trek. “That’s why nobody goes.”

John grabbed his arm again. He was going to lose that hand if he kept doing that. “Look, I left someone there. I can’t just forget that they need me. No one else knows and no one else is coming for them. I’m all they’ve got. Well…me and you.”

A rescue. Tug at my heartstrings why dontcha. “Okay,” he quietly agreed.

“Okay?” John repeated, eyes bright. He removed his hold.

“ _Okay_ , okay?” He blew a long exhale, feeling the weight of centuries settle on his shoulders. “I made a vow to protect this nation from its enemies. I…don’t know if that still matters, but I was never discharged, so…yeah. Looks like you’ve got my number.”

John nodded, looking almost certain. “Looks like.”

They had arrived at the shoreline, a marina stretching out on either side of them. A stretch of boardwalk separated them from rows of eroded docks that led to tethered, capsized boats which bobbed lazily up and down with the waves. Garrett maneuvered to one side, John at his heels. He followed the pathway to a boathouse and tried the door. Still locked.  

He handed the shotgun off to John. “Here,” he said. “Stop sightseeing and start helping. Watch the rooftops across the street.”

His hands free, he rummaged through his pockets and bent, sliding a screwdriver and a worn bobby pin into the lock, working them in a gentle, seasoned manner. Click. Straightening, he pushed the door open, replacing his lock picking tools and pulling out lengths of cable from deep pockets.

“Whoa,” he heard John mutter and found him staring inside, mouth hanging open at what he found.

“What’d I say? Keep lookout!” Garrett admonished.

“Man, you’re bossy,” John grumbled, putting his back to the doorframe and gazing out.

Garrett wouldn’t have made it back to the American Commonwealths and worked his way across the country if not for having something that no one else did – a working transport vehicle.

Being the son of an automatic mechanic had paid off, and _Wanderer_ had gone through many restorations over the years, the motorcycle gaining additional bulk and accessories each time. The wheel guards had long since been removed, the current tires too large. Neither one of them matched – the front tire larger than the one in back – and both wrapped in snow chains ease of passage through debris-filled streets. Hollow drums housed behind hubcaps held drinking water, irradiated, of course, but it served him fine. Several rear-view mirrors were attached, so many that it looked as if the vehicle had antlers. He had attached bolt-on mounts for weapons and gear and additional saddlebags. An assault rifle was affixed to the dashboard, prepped to cut down enemies that emerged in his path. There was a vicious, curving blade affixed to the front for cutting through tripwire and avoiding potential clotheslining situations. The vehicle was armored, protecting the engine and turbine. Garrett had seen too many vehicles explode to cut corners and he hadn’t survived centuries by playing roulette with his chances.

He patted the rusted chrome and tarnished cherry-red paint before sinking to his knees, sliding partway underneath the engine. It was habit to remove the cables each time he left _Wanderer_ alone, the odds of some raider having the knowhow to hotwire it practically nonexistent, and had to reattach them every time he reclaimed it.

When he was finished he brought John in and took the shotgun from him, stowing it among his cargo. He crossed the boathouse to undo the inside latches and threw the back doors open. Smiling, he took pleasure in John’s open ogling of his creation as he returned and hefted himself aboard. After tossing John a helmet of the football variety, he secured a flight helmet over his own head. He cocked a brow behind his visor and revved the engine, a rumbling sound that shook the building.

 “Let’s go get killed!” he shouted over the roar.


	4. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theme for this chapter: [Counting Crows - Round Here (Pa Trick Loop Station Cover)](https://youtu.be/BOzZh2lCRZs?list=RDBOzZh2lCRZs/)

JOHN

Manhattan Crater Outskirts, NY

August 15th, 2269

They had spent the night above ground, housed in a shipping container spacious enough for both them and the massive motorcycle. “ _Better up than under_ ,” Garrett had advised. “ _Metro’s probably plagued with ferals_.”

Ferals – those vicious, melting corpses that he had seen at the airport. As John understood, that was what people like Garrett were called when they were past the point of salvation.

The ghoul _was_ grotesque to look at up close. Slivers of red muscle were visible through the fissures in his rad-scorched skin. His entire nose was missing and John did everything he could to keep for staring at it. The same went for that hole in Garrett’s cheek, where he found himself morbidly fascinated by watching the teeth and tongue work. Although his head was mostly covered by the kerchief, John could tell that the guy was completely bald, and without eyebrow or lashes. Some fingertips had nails still attached, while most didn’t.

Despite his resemblance to something out of one of those black-and-white horror film posters plastered and faded here and there through the metropolis, the ghoul was clearly a survivor, vigilant and smart. The trip into New York City was very different this time, and much faster despite the long detours they took on the bike. The journey was less fearful, more coordinated. Garrett knew how to read markers and warnings, succeeding in avoiding trouble spots where John had been woefully inept. The city streets too narrow to roll through, they left _Wanderer_ behind a bombed-out diner on the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge and continued on foot.

They stuck to back alleys as they headed towards the Downtown area, keeping the ocean at one side. Garrett was bogged down with weapons and gear, all of it functional and not personal, except for a flask strapped to his ankle. He lit a cigarette on the go and tossed the pack to John.

John handed it back. “I don’t smoke,” he stated.

“The Surgeon General is dead. Everybody smokes,” Garrett grumbled around taking a drag.

And so, they did. Garrett accepted the pack and took a second cigarette between his lips, striking a match and lighting it. He removed it from his mouth and handed it to John, who had to try several times to get the inhale just right. John struggled and failed to keep from coughing, which caused Garrett to snort with laughter out of his ravaged nose hole.

John, buying himself time between troublesome puffs, admitted, “This mission…it’s about a girl.”

Garrett didn’t seem surprised, just keep on smoking. Periodically, he’d press his hand to the hole in his cheek, plugging it on the inhale. “There’s always a girl.”

And so, John set about explaining, not that his companion needed the information but because he felt as if he were floundering, searching for the solution to a half-formed question. “There were only two other kids where I grew up. Mallory – Mal – was my best friend. His sister, Stacia, was my…well…we…she and I…”

“Got it on?” Garrett supplemented, humor in his faded eyes.

Nodding, John gave few more sloppy attempts at finishing his cigarette. Caught in memory, he could almost still smell the salt air of Liberty Isle coupled with the rusty scent of the slowly-corroding statue that housed his community. An island of privileged individuals and their families, the water around their landmass had been blue, not the murky gray-brown of the offshore swells near the mainland. Protected on all sides by the sea, the inhabitants could enjoy carefree lives and the benefits that came with affluence.

He had been quite young when his parents had moved there; something about an inheritance finally being handed down. His brother Guy had been much older than he was, and after a rough time trying to adapt to his family’s new life, had left, maintaining little communication. The brothers hadn’t seen each other since their parents’ funeral, which had given the impression that Guy would have happily seen John perish in that radiation-laced hurricane as well, freeing himself fully from the confines of responsibility. John had declined Guy’s half-hearted invitation to come live with him in some sizable city in a Commonwealth to the north, choosing instead to continue his homeschooling and remain with his friends. Guy hadn’t fought his decision and promptly disappeared again. 

“Everything was normal, up until it wasn’t,” John continued, fighting the harsh scratching in his throat as he tried another drag. “One day, Stacia up and disappeared, leaving some note about having to go into the city. Mal and I grabbed what we could and headed after her. But…neither of us had gone Downtown before.” He and Mal had played it cool, waiting for her return, but when the supply boat linking their island to the mainland had returned without her, they had panicked. The ferryman had told them that she had paid him for the ride and headed towards Downtown despite warnings.

Frowning, Garrett looked dubious, the scars on his face twisting. “What vault is near Downtown?” he asked.

“They’re all over,” the lie came easily. John gave a noncommittal shrug. “Could be standing on one and not know it.”

“Mm,” was the ghoul’s response. The tip of his cigarette glowed red as he took another puff. “So, where’d she go?”

Shaking his head sadly, John admitted, “I don’t know.”

Garrett made a face but said nothing insulting. He crushed the cigarette filter beneath a boot, muttering, “Stacia? That’s a weird name. _Stay-sha_.”

Bristling, John countered. “I think it’s beautiful.”

The smile Garrett gave was surprisingly soft considering his weathered face. “Love-struck and reckless. Let me guess – you’re fourteen. That’s the Shakespearian age to die for love.”

“Am not. _Sixteen_ ,” John corrected.

Garrett rolled his pale eyes. Wandering closer, he took hold of John’s pack, causing them to stop in their path. Wiggling John’s blunderbuss from his backpack, amusement trickled into his grin as he asked, “Did you find this in a museum?”

“I…maybe.” He’d taken it from a neighbor’s curio collection, to be specific. John knew which end to hold away from his face, but that was about the end of his weaponry knowhow.

He did hadn’t have time to react as the ghoul slung the weapon into the bay. It barely made a splash before the sea swallowed it. Seething, he whipped his head back around and was presented with the revolver dropped in the parking garage fight. “Here,” Garrett said as he fished for a few handfuls of bullets to go with it, handing them over. “Now you have something that actually works.”

“I…thanks.”

Garrett stopped him again when they neared a cluster of coin-operated fallout shelters up on a plinth. After taking the few stairs to the platform, Garrett rolled the skeleton of an unarmored solider over.John guessed that the guy had a really bad day when the bombs dropped. There were bullet holes in his shirt.

“C’mere. Gimme your foot,” said Garrett, stooping.

“Pardon?” asked John, swinging his pack down.

“Gimme your goddamn foot.”

He took a seat beside Garrett, completing all stages of the Wasteland life cycle – a human, a ghoul, and a dead body. Garrett matched John’s feet to the skeleton’s and removed the combat boots from the bones, giving them to John. “And change,” the ghoul ordered. “You look like a preppy nightmare.” He tossed John khaki cargo pants and a simple white tank from his own satchel.

John felt irked. This guy was constantly condescending, bordering on sarcasm and downright rudeness. “Why do you talk to me like that?”

As Garrett stood, he asked, “Am I supposed to keep you safe or be your buddy? I’m not your father, I’m not your brother, and I’m not your friend. I’m your employee.”

John countered with silence. He changed his clothes, the tank accentuating his slenderness, ribbed fabric highlighting the curve of ribs. The pants had deep pockets and a patch on the inside of the waistband that read, _Issued by the NCR_. John didn’t ask what that meant.

They headed inland at a turnpike and stopped at a trading post for leads and supplies. Fire barrels and crudely painted signs decorated an alleyway dotted with people. “Get what you need. I’ll buy.” John offered. Garrett nodded and began to stock up. With his back turned, John slipped away, selecting the least filthy vendor, an older man with shoes that shined. “You take notes or codes?” John asked.

The man’s eyes widened and he nodded. “Notes. Yes. Always happy to take notes.” He smiled greedily.

No surprise. To access Liberty Isle accounts through codes, a vendor would need direct terminal access, which was, as John understood, limited to large-scale cities or military bases. Notes were pieces of paper inscribed with the account-holder’s signature and personalized sequence of numbers which could be cashed in at all place with access to codes. A vendor had to take a note on faith, but not many knew about them and if someone was caught selling false notes, the usual process included torture, maiming and death, in that order.

John scrawled the note and passed it, concealing the paper in a handshake. In moments, John was traded a lumpy bag stuffed full of bottlecaps. With that amount of Wasteland wealth in his hands. He suddenly felt exposed and craned his neck looking for the little ghoul.

A silver-haired woman was selling ammunition, bullets rattling around inside of glass jars as she shook them at buyers. She had a ghoul with a blinking collar sitting on the ground beside her, loaded with towering packs, empty gaze drifting over the pavement.

John finally understood why Garrett had been sold to him like livestock. Piecing fragments of conversations together, both with Garrett and overheard at Port City, he conjectured that most ghouls were irreparably damaged, had given up and were easy to manipulate. That knowledge made him respect Garrett all the more for being whole and tenacious, if irritating, and was glad to have found him. 

A shill whistle sounded, and he spied Garrett waving him over. John wove through the crowd, keeping his eyes down. When they met up, Garrett had a positively enormous, complicated-looking weapon slung over his back and two skewers of meat in his hand. His satchel bulged with angular items poking into the leather. “Pay up,” he commanded, chewing. John fumbled with the bag, counting out caps. “Hey, pally,” the ghoul addressed the merchant as he handed John one of the skewers, “you said a girl came this way. Curly, brown hair. John, that sound like the one you lost?”

John almost choked on his questionable meal. “Y-yeah. Where? Where’d she go?”

The stringy salesman tossed his chin, gesturing further into the city. “Was lookin’ for a doctor. Sent her up to Doc Morris. He sees all the girls.”

John and Garrett exchanged an equally confused glance. The ghoul dug his hand into John’s cap bag, tossing a few at the informant. “Thanks. John, with me.”

In a daze, John stuck to Garrett’s side. Had he missed something? Had Stacia been sick? Was that why she left? But…they had an infirmary on the island. It didn’t add up.

As they delved deeper into the city, all the while following the trail of this strange doctor, John’s stomach started churning, the scenery too familiar. Everything was black, gray or green. The Manhattan Crater was underwater, the ocean flooding the hole. The pit glowed a florescent green which was reflected in low-hanging clouds that cast that glow back down to Earth. Everything looked the same as it had when Mal had died, as if no time had passed and his entire trip to Port City had been a desperate hallucination. John shook his head to clear it and gripped the gun in his pocket. He couldn’t think that way. He’d lose his nerve.

“If you die,” Garrett said after a period of silence, “is there anyone I should tell?”

Well, that was unexpectedly nice of him. John briefly thought of Guy, but no, they were too different. They were already dead to each other. The enormity of the gap in their ages had cost them too much, the vast differences in their upbringings too diverse. He shook his head. It occurred to him that it would be polite to ask Garrett the same question. “You?”

“I move around too much. Nobody really wants to get close to a ghoul, anyways.”

That was good. If or when the ghoul died, there wouldn’t be much fuss.

When they first spotted the mossy color of mutants moving in the distance, John couldn’t move. He heard Mal’s voice in his head, screaming, calling for help as he was torn apart. He started shaking. Garrett had to pull him out of the street.

Stashed on the second floor a townhome with the sitting room wall missing, they watched the horde cluster. Many wandered here and there with various rifles in their oversized grasps. One was missing a hand and had secured a rusted pitchfork to the stump. Another dragged a block of machinery tethered to a chain. “What’s that?” John asked, pointing.

“Engine block mace,” Garrett answered. “Fun.” He dropped everything but his satchel and the big gun. “Wait here,” he instructed, lighting another cigarette. “If you get swarmed, keep down and use a melee weapon. I’ll cover you.”

“All I’ve got is this,” John said, raising the revolver.

The ghoul sighed and flipped him a combat knife before leaving. “Your vault sucked ass in training you.”

John spent too many minutes listening to the sound of his own breathing. He slunk down the stairs, gun in hand and peered out. The ghoul was laying down a line of mason jars filled with nails and fluid. A thin rope connected all of them and a stick of dynamite was strapped to the one neared the doorway. Garrett caught him lurking. “Oh, surprise. You didn’t listen. C’mere.” John joined him in the street, and Garrett handed him his lit cigarette. “Hold onto this, will you?” Garrett headed back into the townhouse. “Stay there,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Dumbstruck, John stood in place, the cigarette slowly burning in his hand. He was jolted into clarity when Garrett gave another of his high-pitched whistles. “Hey, you uglies!” came the ghoul’s voice from above, echoing down the corridor of stone, metal and glass. “I think you forgot to eat this one! Come and get him!”

The mutants gave a collective, garbled roar of ferocity and began to encroach.

“What did you do?” John called up, frozen in place, voice cracking in terror. Had he just been betrayed?

“I’ve got it handled.”

“Like hell!”

“Hold!” Garrett commanded, voice steady. “When I tell you, light the first mine and get back up here.”

As the horde neared, John doubted that he’d be able to uphold his duty. The rumbling sound of heavy footsteps was familiar, the beady eyes and broken teeth seethed into memory. Last time, he’d been lucky to survive. This time, his life was in the hands of a crazy ghoul giving him orders.

“Almost,” Garrett’s voice called down, encouraging. “Hold your ground.”

 _Easy for you to say from up there,_ he thought darkly, cursing his agreement to be in this situation once more.

The pink insides of mutant mouths were visible by the time that Garrett shouted, “Now!”

 John jabbed the cigarette stub against the dynamite’s fuse. Those few seconds it took for the fuse to burn lasted forever. At the first sign of smoke, John ran, scrambling for the pseudo-shelter of the townhouse. He was still on the first flight of stairs when the building rocked, a forceful cloud of dust and stone bowling him over and the explosion costing him his hearing. Deaf, he fought to push himself to his feet and get back to the level where Garrett was stationed.

Backlit by flames, Garrett was leaning out of the missing section of wall, that huge gun propped on his shoulder. The back end of the weapon flashed and a long projectile left the barrel to cause even more fire and debris to engulf the street. Systematically, Garrett would turn, change angle or duck, all the while reloading what looked to be rockets into his weapon. John had his back against the far wall, keeping clear of the fight, the sound of gunfire drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

The battle was short-lived and John only knew it had concluded when the ghoul dropped the rocket launcher to the ground and heaved a deep breath. He saw John and gave him a thumbs up.

John had never been part of a successful fight. When he had first ventured Downtown, Mal had been armed with a musket. John was still certain that he had never hit anything with that blunderbuss.

Now, Garrett was clapping him on the back, shouting, “Good to go?” in his ear, and yeah, he was – good to go get this over with and head home.

Rubbing his ears, John asked, “What was in those jars?”

“Gas. Flaming hot nail bombs.” Garrett looked proud of himself. “Nifty, huh?”

He deferred to Garrett’s judgement the rest of the way, taking orders and suggestions without question. After that first sortie, none of the others were worth note. The ghoul took point, leading and waving down travelers, searching for this Doc Morris.

John’s faith hit rock bottom when they were directed to a mortuary. A white cross with a dollar sign next to it was painted across the front double doors. “Think this is our man?” Garrett asked, head cocked as he studied the sign.

“Hope not,” John responded.

One day, he’d look back and remember those doors as being the first bad omen.

They pushed the doors open and crept inside. Garrett was short enough that the rocket launcher barrel didn’t knock against the doorframe. An old woman with a sour face greeted them. “Yes?” she squawked from under a single, dangling florescent bulb. Her desk was littered with magazines. Coffins were displayed on either size of the front office, the second bad omen.

Garrett nudged John with an elbow. “We’re, uh, looking for the doctor,” John stammered.

“Humph,” the receptionist – nurse – whoever huffed, looking mildly entertained. “You two aren’t the usual clientele.” But she did move off to retrieve the physician.

Doc Morris had no teeth. That was the third bad omen. A good doctor should at least have teeth.

“I only handle the girls in trouble,” Morris gummed from under a pair of glasses held together with tape. “Pair of fella’s find themselves in a fix, that ain’t my department.”

Garrett caught on long before John did. “No. We arent’ – we don’t have – we’re looking for someone,” he rambled, hands moving animatedly.

 _Oh._ This old geezer through they were – together? Weird. And gross.

“Stacia Estrada. Fifteen, curly hair. About _this_ tall,” John demonstrated, leveling his hand just under his ear.

The doctor looked blank. That was the fourth omen. “The girl from the Isle?” he finally recalled. “Well. Hmm. She was here, yes…”

John’s heart soared. Omens be damned.

The doctor removed his glasses and smacked his lips. “You see…those are the statistics for my services. Yes, I’m willing to do certain procedures but they _are_ risky. I always do explain that.”

He felt pressure at his shoulder before he realized that Garrett was squeezing it. He looked unhappy and John couldn’t fathom why. They’d done it! Stacia’s been here! “Where’s she now?” John asked, ready to grab her and run, to never leave home again. “Is she still here?”

“Well, yes. That’s the thing. Some never leave. Her body is in the basement. I’m an old man, you see. I need help getting her to the incinerator.”

Those words made no sense. The guy was old. Maybe he was confused.

“Why would she come here?” was the only question John come manage to form.

“Same reason they all come, sonny. Some man got them in the family way and they needed not to be.” Doc Morris replaced his glasses, gazing at John through rheumy eyes. “Medicine ain’t what it used to be. Hit or miss most times.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” John wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand or if he didn’t want to. He shrugged Garrett off of him. “She was…pregnant?”

“Barely. But, yes. Things didn’t go as I expected…”

“As _you_ expected?” John barked. He couldn’t see the inside of the makeshift clinic. That one bulb on a wire was drawing his full attention, falling into the light.

Study hands squeezed his shoulders, turning him away from the doctor. “John…” Garrett’s rough voice spilled down a hazy corridor, words barely decipherable. “What did you think we’d find?”

Dead. Stacia was dead. Possibly, it had happened before her brother had perished trying to rescue her. John couldn’t help but feel that he had some hand in killing her. She’d come here because of him. Because of what they – what he’d done.

He felt stuffed full of broken glass, careful to move or breathe for fear of puncturing his insides. “Can I see her?” he whispered.

“Jesus, John,” Garrett said from behind. Refocusing, he looked over his shoulder and watched the ghoul shake his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” he asked in a flat tone.

“It won’t help. At best, it’ll make you crazy.” Garrett’s face pinched, visibly battling over what to say. “Did you want it?”

John’s head was spinning, fighting to make sense of the situation. “Want what?”

“The kid.”

“I…didn’t know about it.” He frowned, trying to find some kind of emotion to connect with. “Does it matter?”

“Well, not now. But…kinda? I’m trying to weigh the level of necessary condolences.” He bit into his lower lip before asking, “Are you alright?”

He wrenched free of the ghoul’s comforting presence. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted the pain to surface, to punish him. “Nothing’s alright. The world should burn.”

Garrett’s words were gentle. “The world _did_ burn. That didn’t fix anything.”

John was alone for the first time. No governess, no family, no neighbors, no friends. He could still go home, but home to what? An empty house and the memories of his dead friends?

“I gotta…find a way to send her back home. Her – her body, I mean.” The words tasted strange in his mouth.

With Garrett at his elbow, John made quick arrangements. He had to trust that the doctor would keep his word and send her out on a caravan. He certainly paid enough caps for that promise.

He found himself back outside, although he had no memory of how he got there. He noticed that Garrett had his hand on his back, guiding him.

Their refuge that night was spent in a bodega. John sat facing the wall without seeing it as Garrett rummaged around, probably stocking up on things to use on his motorcycle. The emptiness consumed him. John realized that he was about to be left behind, his one companion sticking to his word and leaving him now that their mission had concluded.  

It took some time to rouse himself to the point where he could talk without wanting to scream. He swallowed and turned, asking, “…Can we do this long term?”

He found Garrett seated, inspecting his launcher for damage. His head jerked up at John’s question. “Huh? Do what?”

John shook his head, shrugging, not caring, rudderless in a sea of anguish. “Whatever. Wherever. Get outta here and go anywhere else. You…you know what you’re doing. You can show me. I can keep paying you.”

The faint suggestion of a smile raised a corner of Garrett’s mouth. “Are you asking me to go steady?”

“I…sure, I guess.”

That smile grew. “That’s pretty cute. But, why would you want to partner with a ghoul? Can’t be for my good looks.”

“To just live,” John said, recalling his words from yesterday. Yesterday? It felt like a month had passed. “Even if there’s no point. Seems like you’ve got that down.”

Garrett’s smile turned rueful. “You wanna live like a ghoul? Just getting by?”

He chose not to answer. John didn’t really _want_ to live at all, but something pushed him along despite his mental state, driving him to keep going, insisting that he wasn’t done yet.

“Well,” Garrett started off slowly, something in his expression softening, “I can’t have you throwing yourself off a bridge or shooting yourself in the foot. Not after I invested all this work. But you’ll have to learn, have to keep up. No amount of caps is worth dragging someone useless around.”

“I can. I mean, yeah, I will.” He’d send a note to Mal and Stacia’s family on Liberty Isle. There was little else that he could offer in terms of solace other than words.

Garrett steadied the launcher across his knees. His well-worn face didn’t hold any trace of challenge or mockery, just honest compassion as he asked, “So, where to, boss?”


	5. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode theme: [Lynyrd Skynyrd - Simple Man (Female Cover)](http://https://youtu.be/6VFdMEKwcsI/)

GARRETT

WVU Law Ruins, WV

Spring, 2270

Traveling cross-country was remarkably easy thanks to _Wanderer_. The big motorcycle churned over rubble and cracked highways at high speeds as the stark background of present America whizzed by, looking more like the surface of Mars than the country Garrett remembered. They skirted the questionable places, taking wide detours around main roads, avoiding raider traps and vacant areas where mutants tended to cluster, stopping in ramshackle towns within the centers of former towering metropolitan cities. John’s post-vault-emergence tour had to be vastly disappointing.

West Virginia was no exception – gray and brown, dead and burnt, just like anywhere else they’d visited in the last six months. They were currently holed up in the main library of a college campus, _Wanderer_ hidden outside within a thorny briar topped with fluorescent orange flower bulbs that practically screamed toxicity. John had shouted into Garrett’s ear when he spotted the university, demanding that they stop, no doubt seeking to quench his insatiable love of political lore.

The lanky blonde was currently hunched over a microfilm reader, shoulders bowed and eyes squinting through the glass, a stack of half-filled loose-leaf papers at his elbow, the worn nub of a pencil pinched between his fingers. He had adopted some armor at Garrett’s insistence, wearing leather bracers over his sleeves, a knife stowed in a sheath in the left one. Having explained that the rings he wore were some type of keepsake mementos for those he’d lost, John had found one for the girl he’d valiantly tried to save, and, after some debate, one for the baby.

The library was quiet, which seemed strange to Garrett’s ears. Nothing beeped, growled, clanked or exploded. The only sounds were the faint buzzing of fusion-powered overhead lights and the crackle of the fire barrel they’d set up, atop which sat a grate with two cans of Pork’n’Beans and a corn cob.

Bored in the lull, his weapons and vehicle already attended to, Garrett thumbed through the packet of essays John had been painstakingly writing since they left New York. It was as if the grand injustice of Stacia’s death had spurned something to awaken in John. He seemed to take solace in words, that he could analyze and plan, learning from documented articles of the past to anticipate future wrongdoings and how to prevent them. John’s phrasing had a flowery quality to it, and Garrett commented as he browsed, “You write like a Federalist. Ya know, like one of those founding father types – Franklin, Hamilton, Hancock…”

“Just because most people have a vocabulary of four letter words doesn’t mean you should lump me in with the yokels,” John countered without looking up.

The mouth on this guy. _A real Wordsworth_ , Garrett chuckled, putting the essays back in their place. John was always ready with a zinger, the challenge in his voice accompanied by a steady glare. He had grown fearless – or reckless. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

“Write how you want, but you’ll probably need to make some alterations to the way you talk,” Garrett suggested, moving the cans and cob off the fire and taking a seat on a rickety wooden chair.

John pulled his face away from the machine and frowned. “How come?”

Fanning the steam pouring from the open tin cans, Garrett poked a spoon in each and said, “You’d be lucky to find anyone that can actually read out there. Talking like you’ve had an education…well, it makes you seem loaded. And it turns you into a mark.”

He had done well at keeping John away from crowds where his speech patterns might be noticed. Still in mourning, John had been happy to keep to himself and avoid having to fit in. Welcoming Garrett’s combat training, John had found an outlet for his aggressions, although his wandering focus affected his technique. He would ask to be taken to libraries and law offices, choosing to concentrate on his studies instead of worrying about survival. That was Garrett’s job.

Rising, John stowed his papers into his satchel, adding the pencil to a front pocket. “Point taken,” he said. “I’ll give it a go.”

John joined their fireside dining, retrieving a now-cooled can. Garrett hated pre-packaged food centuries passed its expiration date and avoided it whenever he could. He cracked the cob in half and handed a piece to John. The relative freshness of the corn cut through the pungent taste of tinned pig, making the meal somewhat palatable. 

Partially through their meal, John broke the silence, saying, “Can I ask a potentially offensive question?”

“Oh, why not?” Garrett dared, bracing himself.

“What was it like? Turning into – changing into – becoming a ghoul?”

He should have guessed that question would arise. John was naturally inquisitive and had likely held off on asking until he knew for certain that Garrett wouldn’t shoot him for doing so.

Garrett didn’t hold back. “Painful. Confusing. Really fucking lonely,” he recounted. “For a time, there were only ghouls, the few of us left to figure out how to get by in all this.” He waved at the ruins of the library and, by extension, the planet. “Then these babies, these squalling infants of humanity, came out of their vaults and their bunkers, took one look at us and decided that we should all die.”

His statement must have shaken John’s upstanding core. With his expression clouding over, John muttered, “Why does anything have to be awful? The world’s worse than I’d imagined.”

Setting his empty can aside, Garrett huffed. “This world is cake. Fight or die. Pretty simple. Not that it’s any consolation, but the entire nation is damn similar. Even the Provinces.”

That seemed to grab John’s attention and his eyes brightened. “Canada?’ he queried. “You’ve been?”

Oops. Too much information.

“Yeah,” Garrett guardedly replied, standing. “I’ve been.” He made for his bedroll, making sure to keep his back turned.

Following the atomic firestorm that turned the landscape into a barren desert, it had taken Garrett twenty-three years to cautiously pick his way down through the Canadian Providences back to Utah. After finding the area equally unhospitable as anyplace else, he enlisted with the Desert Rangers, serving nearly half a century as an advance scout, as he was used to plunging into situations with little information beforehand **.** Occasionally, he wished that he hadn’t discarded his dogtags in a fit of anger sometime mid-twenty-second century. The Rangers were accepting of any ghoul with a military background, but the only proof of his service had been the garish academy ring which still rode his finger. Not that he enjoyed partnering with smoothskins; at some point, they all aged and died while he remained the same, stuck in a loop of service and death, of flags and gunfire. After he resigned, fearing the complacency that cost ghouls their minds, he had moved steadily east with what spotty employment he could procure.

Keeping his past to himself was a chore. He tugged a corner of the bedroll over his face and tried to pretend he was alone.

The next morning, as John shoved his notepads and pages torn from textbooks into a saddlebag hanging off _Wanderer’s side,_ he pulled a trifold flag from within Garrett’s collection of odd and ends, still sealed in its container. He brushed dust from the plaque at the bottom with his thumb and frowned the name printed there. “Is this yours?” asked John, holding it up.

The case had Garrett’s name inscribed on it. Of course the flag was his. Anger flared and he grabbed it away from John. “Keep out of my crap,” he grumbled, stuffing it back where it belonged. “Paying me doesn’t give you free range to rummage.”

“Sorry,” John said, looking apologetic and somewhat abashed. They mounted _Wanderer_ with lingering unease.

As they rode, Garrett’s mind drifted.  In that brief period between getting back to St. George and becoming a Ranger, he had traveled across the region, looking through every vault that he could, chasing the ghosts of his past. All five of his sisters had been guaranteed shelter by Vault-Tec, and had been the primary reason for his enlistment in the Army. He visited over twenty vaults looking for them, and had been met with disappointment each time.

He recalled finding a functional vault that had recently opened its seal, screaming at the Overseer over the barrel of his gun while vault residents cowered at the sight of his gnarled self, yelling over and over, ‘ _Karen Grant! She was designated to evac to this location! Karen Grant!_ ’ The Overseer had produced a list of original survivors to show him, if only to encourage him to leave.

**Grant, K. No show at event.**

She hadn’t even made it to the vault.

The other vaults had been empty or compromised. His youngest sister’s vault had failed to seal properly. Hundreds of skeletons had been splayed out in the bright florescent lights of the bunker. He had found her room listed on a terminal and sobbed with dry eyes over her bones. He took a single item from her possessions – a flag in a case, awarded to his family when the war ended. The country had been so damn grateful that they had sent one to the home of every solider. Some flags made the journey still safe behind glass, others went back draped over a casket. The thing made it look as if he had done something brave. His family…none of them survived. But he had. It had been crushing irony that the boy sent off to war had lived while the girls, supposedly safe at home, had all perished.

That evening, they stopped at a questionable settlement atop vast thrones of filth. By the looks of it, this was a raider encampment, which meant only two things – extreme caution and the likelihood of resupplying some key items.

“Don’t talk,” Garrett warned, armed to the teeth as they walked in after stashing _Wanderer_. Until John could successfully alter his manner of speech, they ran the risk of getting shaken down at every stop. Garrett played his part as the assistant to his master, who watched him trade in utter silence with one brow raised. Keeping his head down and his shoulders rolled, Garrett purchased what he needed, looking back at John every so often for his nod of approval, a signal system they had long since worked out. Servitude, even implied, kept sentient ghouls alive and allowed them to pass through settlements largely unmolested.

Back in the shelter of an overturned bus that lay beside a highway exit, John peered over his shoulder to see what Garrett was unloading – bags and bottles and wrapped packages of narcotics. “This is what you wasted my caps on?” he asked with distaste, his nose wrinkling. “Not my scene.”

“Really?” Garrett asked, incredulous. “Why? Chems will keep you alive. Make you stronger, faster, smarter. Think I’m able to carry those ridiculous shoulder canons around with Buffout?”

John’s face was almost funny in his intense confusion. “But you’re a soldier. Shouldn’t you be against using chems?”

“Heh. Who do you think they were developed for?” He failed to suppress a low laugh. Despite Garrett’s training, John was still subpar with firearms. He could only be trusted with shotguns, as the wide spray of pellets might actually hit something. “And you kinda suck. Take all the help you can get.”

John gingerly slid a tin of Mentats from the pile. He picked it up and carefully shook it, as if expecting the jangling contents to burst into lethal powder.

His assault rifle within reach, Garrett judged that it was safe enough to let their guard drop for a few minutes.  Pointing to the box in John’s hands, he said, “Knock yourself out. Probably won’t do much without stimuli. Mentat’s usually require something to focus on.”

As John popped the lid and indulged, Garrett lit a cigarette. Without a fight or the need for endurance, he had little desire for recreational chems. Instead, he smoked and peered out of a broken window, scanning the road for movement. The evening was quiet, a frosty breeze making foliage quiver, making it look as if figures were lurking.

A fervent, rustling sound made him turn his head. He found John spreading his writings all over his side of the bus. On his knees, he would pick up a piece of paper, review it for a fraction of a second, and then slap it down before grabbing another. This went on for quite a while, John buzzing from one work to the next. It seemed as if he had forgotten Garrett’s presence, caught up in the fervor of reading his own words, when he jerked his head up, eyes wide and amazed. “I’m, like, a genius,” he congratulated himself, clutching papers in both hands, looking deranged with his mad smile. “Look at these refrains! Look at them! This is what I can leave behind! I’m gonna matter!” He shook the papers, rumpling them. “I’m smart, Garrett! I’m smart! Don’t you feel insignificant?”

Squinting, Garrett blew a plume of smoke before calmly answering, “No. No, I don’t.”

John was still grinning, unmindful of what he had said.  

Oh, great. When high, John was a philosophical braggart. Garrett shouldn’t have been surprised.

He set the thought aside and put out his cigarette. As he wedged himself in between rows of seats, he seemed to recall that everyone got overly excited the first time they dropped Mentats. It would wear off. The crinkling of paper faded as he dropped into slumber.

Garrett didn’t give the incident a second thought for months. On the way to Pennsylvania, they had stopped at some beatnik haven next to a freeway offramp, a strip mall outfitted to be a decent vendor locale with miniguns aiming down from billboards, to stock up on provisions and bullets.

After accepting an initial bag of caps from John, Garrett had been unable to find him again. He checked the usual spots where people congregated – bars, shops, the inn, even a church and a whorehouse – to no avail. Even as it grew dark and the shantytown turned on generators that powered towering worklights that spilled illumination into the adjoining roadway, Garrett was more stumped than alarmed; he had never misplaced anyone.

At the far end of the lot, alarmingly out of reach of the minigun-carrying watchmen, he found a drifter camp housed under a vast patchwork leather teepee strung up over a street lamp. Garrett’s stomach did a jolty flip-flop as he approached. 

He drew back the flap, letting the floodlights spill in. A man with oily hair, sunken eyes and bulging pockets yelled, "How am I supposed to deal drugs with this much light?!"

Garrett dropped the flap and darkness enveloped him. It was dark inside, lit only by the occasional flash of lighter igniting. Reaching into a pocket, he flicked on his own lighter, scanning the interior circle for a familiar figure. There were several people curled up on pieces of cardboard and huddled into themselves. He recognized the golden blonde hair of one of the huddlers. A collection of inhalers and a single empty syringe littered the floor by his side.

Sinking to one knee, he gently touched the smoothskin on the shoulder. “John…time to head out. You don’t wanna be here.”

The head shook, hair waving back and forth. When John finally looked at him, his eyes were glassy. “We’ve already had this conversation.”

 “…what?” Garrett almost laughed, and would have if John didn’t look so serious.

“When we were awake. We’ve already done this. My further participation in this exchange is no longer necessary.”

Garrett could do little more than stare at him, feeling a mounting sense of alarm as his lighter flickered, threatening to fail. “John…are…are you okay?”

John leaned conspiringly close, his lips nearly touching Garrett’s shell-less ears. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “This is just an echo. It won’t change anything. This had already happened.” He leaned away and frowned. “Why are you still in my dream?” he asked in confusion.  When John looked down at himself, it seemed to startle him, and fear crept into his unfocused gaze. “Shit. Am I here? Is this happening? If I do anything…does it matter?” He swallowed before confessing, “I’m…not in my body right now.”

Blame his military involvement and enlisted associates, but it had been some time since Garrett had been subjected to the wide world of chemmed-out ramblings. He felt stunned, unable to make a quip or a reprimand. When had this happened? When was the last time he took an inventory of their chems? Never. He stocked up only when he ran out. Had he really been so negligent? While he dealt with the minutia of managing their lives, handling food, shelter, protection and the maintenance of _Wanderer_ , John spent his time in libraries and civil offices, doing, Garrett guessed, more writing and research and, apparently, a whole lotta chems.

He _tsked_ in the back of his throat. “Nope,” he said, standing and extinguishing his lighter. “We’re leaving.” Taking John’s arm, he hoisted him up andescorted him out.

“Fuck. I can do _anything_!” He could see John’s teeth flash in a euphoric smile. “I can do anything, Gare!  I’m not here, so it’s fine.”

Garrett gave him a hearty shake before shoving him towards the entry flap. “John, no. Don’t _do_ anything. Don’t _go_ anywhere. Don’t _move_. Hang on.” He left John where he stood to whirl around, growling at the stringy haired dealer through gritted teeth, “What the hell did you give him?”

The guy raised one shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “Just some ‘Tats, man. The rest of the stuff, he brought in himself.”

“It’s gonna be fine, Gare. Believe me,” John assured from the entry. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

“Shut up!” Garrett barked over his shoulder, fed up with John’s lark. “How to I fix this?” he growled at the dealer.

With a greedy leer, the man said, “Got your normal cure-alls – Fixer, Addictol. It’ll cost ya, though.”

“Of course, it will,” Garrett muttered, forking over what was left of his cap allowance for a package of Fixer.

When he turned, he found that John had vanished once more. “Tom-fuckery,” he cursed, bursting out of the chem hut. Cutting a wide loop around the marketplace revealed no hint of his charge. He expanded the perimeter of his search, heading out of range of the floodlights, up the paved offramp on a hunch. Mentats were proving to be John’s vice and he be looking for something to ignite his senses. 

There John stood, leaning over the railguard at the apex of the ramp, where the road apparently ended. The rest of the freeway had long since crumbled into chunks of concrete, taking the cars that had been traveling over it down into a chasm, forming a tangled cluster of steel, glass and powdered asphalt below.

Lit only by a thin layer of cloud cover that absorbed the night sky’s glow, John was looking out over the pitted landscape filled with shadows and dry cracks. Seaside-born, he still had trouble accepting the desolation of the Wasteland. It remained alien to him, and the questions he peppered Garrett with had been endless. “We’re on the moon!” he shouted.

Sighing, Garrett sidled up to him, saying, “No, John. We’re not on the moon.”

“We are! I’ve seen pictures!” John looked elated, eyes wide with a smile that stretch ear to ear. He was rubbing at the back of one hand.

Garrett paused, trying to hash out a way to talk John into voluntarily returning to the safety of a well-lit community. On the other hand, if he pushed John off the ledge, he could end this ridiculous exchange. But that would nullify their partnership and end John’s cashflow.

“Well,” he started slowly, “here’s to us then. We made it all the way to the moon. How ‘bout we celebrate? We’ll go back and tell everyone how we did it.”

John shook his head, smile shrinking into nothingness. “That’s not fair. I don’t belong on the moon. I just play a role. I don’t get to see how it ends.”

Garrett struggled to connect John’s thoughts into a single narrative, but gave up. As he edged closer, John moved away, ducking under the rail to stand of the other side, the disintegrating side of the elevated highway under his boots. John’s nails scratched up and down his forearms, trying to get under his bracers to reach skin. “It’s in my blood, Gare. I have to get it out.”

Well, that was chilling.

“You…need to get your blood out?” Garrett clarified, slowly and intentionally. Garrett froze, not even breathing while he tried to piece together the logic in John’s phrase. “What’s…what’s in your blood?” he tentatively asked, if for no other reason than to keep John talking.

Staring down at the burned-out shells of vehicles cluttering the ground, John said, “History. All the stories. They arent’ mine. I think I stole them.”

Garrett closed a hand over the railing that stood between them, deliberately keeping his movements controlled. If he spooked John, he wasn’t sure what would happen. Not for the first time, Garrett felt like the last man alive, out of his depth but knowing that he was on his own to solve whatever problem that reared its head.

“I want to help you, John. But, I don’t know how.”

“It’s fine,” John mumbled, pulling at the laces of his bracers, trying to undo them.

“Stop saying that!” Garrett snapped, resting his hip on the rail, his muscles bunched and coiled to spring.

John’s despondent demeanor shifted, concern causing a line to form between his brows as he stared at Garrett. “You don’t have to worry. I don’t want you to worry.”

Scrambling for an idea, Garrett smiled. “Hey, John – you wanna get some noodles? You like noodles, right?”

An excited grin spread over John’s face. “Oh, man, I love noodles!”

“Yeah, me, too.” He held out his hand. “Let go get some noodles.”

Caught in indecision, John looked back down at the gulf of twisted cars and snapped rebar.

Seizing the moment, Garrett swung his legs over the rail and tackled John before he could do anything stupid. With John straining and protesting the entire way, Garrett bodily dragged him back to the mall, knowing full well that it looked like some ghoul was abducting a human, bracing himself to be shot at.

Reedy John was no match for Garrett’s compact strength and, as they found themselves in the safety of the floodlights, he stopped struggling and began walking on his own. While John was still secured around the waist, he reached to run his hand up Garrett’s neck and the side of his face, feeling the texture, softly tracing the ridges of hardened flesh with light fingertips.

With a deep frown, Garrett asked, “You, uh, get your fill there, comrade?”

As if startled, John withdrew, his hand falling. “Yeah. Sorry. You feel like jerky.”

Garrett took him back to the inn at the strip mall, sans noodles. He also grabbed a bucket. In a room of cardboard walls and threadbare rugs, he gave John the Fixer, checking to see that he swallowed the tablets. Over the next few hours, John kept throwing up, bent over his bucket. He had to be burning from his gut to his eyes. His body could pump out whatever pills he’d taken, but his brain, knowing that it was being poisoned, had no other way to try and exorcise the toxins distributed by needles or vapors. Over time, the Fixer would cleanse his system, but in the meantime, he would just have to suffer.

After a while, John lay prone on the ground, fingernails scaping the floorboards as if trying to hang on to a rotating ride. Garrett smoked while watching him writhe, regularly trying to hand him the same can of purified water again and again. John would bat the can away each time it was offered and continue to hug the floor.

“Why did you do this to me?” John groaned, shoulders hunched in misery.

“ _Me_?” Garrett groused, eyes going wide. “What did I do?”

“You started this, said I should take the chems.” He paused and shuttered, probably feeling a cold flash. “I trusted you, so I did.”

Forcefully jamming his cigarette out, Garrett vented, “Oh, no. No, no, no. I never told you to do _this_. I can handle what I take. Thought you could, too.” He looked down at John with pity. “That’s what I do, man – I take care of you, try to make it so you can stand on your own. What coulda happened tonight…Jesus. I thought you were smarter than that. I guess I was wrong.”

His skin still waxy and pale, John dragged himself across the floor until he could wrap his arm around Garrett’s boot. “You’re nice to me, Gare. You’re way too nice to me.”

“Okay,” Garrett said, humoring him in his discomfort. He offered the water once more.

John struggled to sit up, finally taking the can and cradling it to his chest. His eyes were round and bloodshot as he avowed, “I’m never doing this again. Promise.”

Garrett lit another cigarette. “Uh-huh.”


	6. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode theme: [Helter Skelter - Stereophonics](https://youtu.be/CpEZgkLrmBo/)

JOHN

Atlantia City, NJ

Fall, 2270

_Guy,_

_Faith alone convinces me that the caravan transporting these manuscripts will reach you. Once again, I extend my thanks at your offer to house my collection of compositions. I remain a polymath among the savage and destitute tapestry of contemporary America. You scoff, surely, but note that I am no stranger to ambition. In that aspect, we are aligned. The fault of our blood, perhaps, is to reach beyond our stations. Shall one of us become King of Denmark? Beware of unmarked vials…_

_Regretfully, I must once again decline your proposition of my joining you in the Commonwealth. Civil unrest plagues the nation. To exist as either a scholar or correspondent in these dark times is unheard of, and few, if any, take pause to document events._ _I am alone in this venture, to understand cause and propose further action._

_Perchance you might peruse document number thirty-eight (clearly labeled) and find proof that the current currency system, one of trade goods and bottlecaps, is an archaic practice primed for upheaval. The w-_

The door to the room opened with a rusty squeal, shattering John’s concentration. He glowered at Garrett’s intrusion into the gaudy hotel room, cursing his timing. “Jeez, John. Lock your damn door,” Garrett reprimanded. The ghoul was balancing a plate of unidentifiable protein in his hand. “There’s someone down in the pub that has a lead on a group called the…Railcar…Railway...something like that. Thought you might wanna crack open a dialogue, see if that’s something you’re interested in.”

Garrett’s amiable nature often kicked up informants and agents of all types. There was a wealth of vying organizations in the Wasteland, all with different ideologies and various levels of force that they were willing to put forth to promote those ideals. In consideration of John’s endless pursuit of information, Garrett usually played wingman, putting John in touch with these operatives for questioning.

Right now, he couldn’t spare Garrett’s words a second thought. Shaking his head, John held his palms over his work. “Not now. I’ve gotta…get something down.”

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Garrett backed out of the doorway. “Lock it!” was his parting response.

Mentat highs were short-lived and John was eager to finish before the crash came. Those chalky tablets created crystal clarity with a focal point on only one objective, the intensity almost painful in its sharpness. He had tried try to quit, honest, but it had become increasingly difficult to write without chems assisting him, feeling as if words were banging around inside of his head and none of them would lock down without aid.

The scratching sound of pen against paper faded as he lost himself within words. His writing blissfully transported him worlds away, up out of the filth and depression of his surroundings and back to a time when ideas and order mattered.

_The weight of essential coinage alone is enough to over encumber a man. Removing these physical items would result in safer travels, with robbery less frequent. I understand that my financial suggestions will be met with resistance, but I urge you present this matter to your city council. Take the credit for yourself, if you wish, but share the response with me. (When I have a more permanent address.)_

_This is the first step._

  * _J_



He felt the crash happen, concentration slipping through his fingers like sand, the visuals on his periphery coming back into focus. The initial shaky feeling faded as he blew out a breath and rolled up his letter.

Deceiving to his companion had gotten progressively easier. Garrett maintained an aloof indifference to John’s behavior, which was simple to exploit. Chems were abundant, and Mentats the easiest of all to sneak, leaving no inhalers and syringes behind. He wasn’t entirely certain why he lied. Maybe to avoid the look of shameful disappointment in the ghoul’s eyes that made John feel as if he were a naughty child caught by a parent. He was fairly certain that the ghoul knew of his vices but, being the good employee that he was, elected to remain mute on the subject to avoid conflict. 

John’s writings were less self-serving now. Laws had changed too much for his history books to provide an adequate course of action, and everyplace they went it seemed like whoever had the biggest gun made the rules. As he struggled to make sense of the Wastes, he had been writing about the current political climate, particularly fascinated by commerce systems and economics. Garrett had joked that only those with money felt the urge to write about it.

His manuscripts were sent up to his brother’s address in Diamond City for safe storage where one day he could compile them into linear, legible documents that could serve as conduct guides for mid-range to high-level settlements. John still ached to conjure solutions for the smaller, less organized townships. The Mentats had convinced him that the answers were locked away inside his head, just out of reach, and that, with right combination of substances, he could pry them free.

Weary of the abysmal conditions of small town settlements, they had taken up temporary residence the sprawling mass of Atlantia City, a place where Garrett could readily find other ghouls to reminisce with and John could study the intricacies of real social structure. A long strip of towering buildings in various states of disarray decorated the shoreline, with dilapidated makeshift housing crammed in between once proud hotels. Half-protected by one side facing the ocean, a continuous guard of drafted citizens patrolled the rear-facing side and the casino floors. Each hotel had its own plethora of well-stocked shops and back-hallways vendors willing to part with less publicized goods. Being seaside adjacent was a bonus to the bustle, as John often missed the smell of salt air. Flashing lights blinked on and off outside of his open window, the neon light more bearable without the Mentat influence.

He was surprised to see the backdrop of black sky beyond the neon, although lost time often went hand in hand with chem use. Recalling Garrett’s plate of food, his stomach rumbled, and he ventured to the lobby. Downstairs, the _ding-ding-ding_ of a slot machines payouts – chips instead of caps, although they made a similar sound – filled a vast atrium dotted with grungy deactivated fountains full of stagnant water and crumbling faux-marble statues decorated with vulgar tagging.

Stepping up to a casino-side food stall, he held a finger aloft, the universal signal for ordering whatever the specialty was. He shook the appropriate number of caps from a pouch in his pocket and took his plate to sit at the end of a long, L-shaped bar.

As he ate, he spotted Garrett smoking a cigar with a few other ghouls across the casino floor. His arm was around the waist of a petite blonde human who sat in his lap. He’d been in the same position often enough for John to know that Garrett preferred his girls soft instead of shriveled. At several smaller towns, that kind of behavior could result in Garrett’s immediate execution. In places like this, where cashflow was high and inhibitions low, the two races mingled without incident.

Patchy clusters of demonstrators hovered outside the glass exit doors, carrying signs that read _Not Our Republic_ , _Kimball Wants War!_ , and _The Enclave is Waiting._ Each time a door opened, the sound of their voices rose and fell like a wave. This batch of activists had been growing over the last few weeks, growing bolder. They would accost people as they passed _,_ spitting opinions and propaganda until the target either slunk away or shoved their way through. This type of attention-getting was new to John. The usual signs that sprung up in more civilized places were about the Atom, notices for cheap work, or enlistment opportunities. He made a mental note to start a paper about society’s discontents when his current essay was completed.

“A guy like you all alone?” a voice crackled from beside him. “Now that’s a crime.”

His mouth still full, he jerked his head to face the speaker. A lady ghoul sat one stool over, her face cupped in a palm as she smiled at him, fissures pulling tight at the corners of her mouth. A long auburn braid tumbled over her shoulder. Before his study on exports, he hadn’t realized the premium that ghouls were willing to pay for human hair. Plenty of ghouls found themselves impoverished after paying top dollar for wigs that made them feel close to normal.  

After swallowing, John cleared his throat. “Not alone,” he corrected. “But my buddy’s kinda…preoccupied right now.” He gestured in Garrett’s direction, where the blonde girl was whispering into his ear and he was laughing.

Over the last year, John had been remarkedly successful at burying his old manner of speaking, blending in, adopting the low-brow speech of scavvers with their _ain’ts_ and _gotta’s_ , though the words still felt coarse and dirty in his mouth. Regrettably, his marksmanship hadn’t improved by much, partly due to his preoccupation with chems and his studies, but mostly because of Garrett’s presence. Worrying about his protection wasn’t too high of a concern when the skillful ghoul was present.

“Could you be?” the ghoulette asked, leaning closer.

“Could I be what?”

She slid her fingers through his. “ _Preoccupied_.”

Ah. John got it. While he’d never taken a ghoul to bed before, he’d considered it, wondered at length what it would be like. “With the right persuasion, yeah,” he agreed, tightening his hand around hers. “ _You_ here all alone?”

She giggled. “Sweetie, I’ve been here for a long time. Most people, they just come and go. This trashy casino’s been my home for centuries.” Her smiled turned wicked. “You’re on my turf.”

He grinned at her humor. “I’m John,” he introduced.

“I’m Peggy. Where’re you staying, John?”

She looked wholesome enough, probably not a call girl, though John wasn’t sure how to pose that question without insult. He and Garrett both picked up women on occasion, only to leave them behind as they kept traveling. Rubbers were worth more than ammo, and were much rarer. He had already knocked up one girl up in his lifetime and the experience with Stacia still burned, as it likely always would. But, as John understood, when ghouls and humans mixed, things like that weren’t a concern.

When he took her back to his room, he locked the door.

As they sat on his bed, faded cherubs glancing down from the wallpaper on the ceiling, he felt incredibly self-conscious. His hair was longer than it had ever been, blonde waves brushing his shoulders, yet not lengthy enough to be tied back. He had never put on much in the way of muscle mass, and was skinny and bare-faced. Women would call him beautiful, not handsome, and he still wasn’t sure how to take that.

Peggy didn’t seem to find fault in him as she tugged his shirt over his head. He eased her jacket over her shoulders as she undid the buttons on her shirt. “You done this before, John?” she asked, looking up at him through lash-free lids.

“Well, yeah, just…not with…not with somebody like you,” he confessed, a touch of unease stirring his gut. He tried not to think of all the things he could do wrong, like accidently sliding a fingertip over raw muscle or poking the wrong orifice.

“You got any Rad meds?” she asked, a disarming smile present on her thin lips.

He nodded and hopped up to collect them. Returning to the bed, they sat facing each other, legs folded or crossed. Peggy patiently explained the obligatory steps, holding up each item as she mentioned them. “Rad-X before and RadAway after. Every time. Even if you go twice,” she said, winking. She shook a couple of Rad-X pills from the bottle and handed them to him. John swallowed them dry. He wondered how many encounters had to go terribly wrong for this standard practice to be put into play.

After setting the medications on the side table, Peggy leaned into him, pushing him back, the tail of her braid tickling his chest.

“Wait,” he stopped her, sitting upright. She frowned, appearing confused. “Take it off,” he requested, running a hand over the auburn stands of her wig.

Peggy hesitated, chest raising and falling as she considered it. At last, she hooked her fingers under the seams at her temples, slid them up underneath the crown and slipped the entire thing off, revealing the bald dome of her scalp. She looked slightly frightened and almost pitiful.

Struck by the honesty of this moment, John’s breath caught before cradling her head in his hand and drawing her into a gentle kiss. She pushed him back again, and he didn’t stop her.

When he watched Peggy leave in the morning, she almost bumped into Garrett in the hall, coming back from a night spent elsewhere. With the blonde, most likely. He had been fumbling to light a cigarette and stopped, uncouthly staring. “Was that your first ghoul?” he asked once she had disappeared around a corner.

“Indeed,” John said proudly as he leaned against the doorframe, adding a smug grin.

Garrett returned the unlit cigarette to its pack, looking troubled. “Did you…take precautions?”

“Yes, dad,” John mocked, rolling his eyes. “We were safe.”

“Good,” he said, shouldering his way into the hotel room. “Radioactive crotch rot is no fun for anyone. I guess the ladies have it worse, receiving a nuclear payload,” he added crudely, as he stacked their belongings on the desk. “S’why I’m always on the lookout for rubbers, rare as they are, as I’m neither an asshole or an idiot.” There was an uncomfortable pause. His cheeks might have reddened, or maybe it was just the morning light competing with the outdoor neon. “I’m done now,” Garrett said, making a slashing motion as if to cut down the discussion. “New topic.”

They were headed out today and, although John had grown accustomed to the ease of city life, he was eager to be on the road again, getting his boots dirty and learning everything he could about this wide-open world.

“You head down,” John said, stuffing freshly-laundered clothes handled by hotel staff into his pack. “I gotta get something down on paper before I lose it.”

Garrett opened his mouth as if to object, but closed it again. Dutifully, the ghoul assumed the majority of their load and left as John was collecting his papers.

He waited thirty seconds after the ding of the elevator before pulling his chem stash from the night stand, beside a Bible with a creaseless spine. After hiding the items inside socks and rolled shirts, and keeping a few in the wide pockets of his pants just in case, he brought a canister of Jet to his mouth and pulled deep. His muscles immediately relaxed, his rate of respiration decreasing. The Jet effect was like looking at the world through a smoke-filled kaleidoscope. He felt like a tire when the air seeped out, deflating, losing hold on concerns or cares.

John was…happy. Everything was going just fine. He was in a city where it was safe to be inebriated and his partner wouldn’t have to know. He’d had an eye-opening experience the night before and felt that he’d managed to cross some boundary that was somehow important. He didn’t recognize himself as the scared, clueless kid that had crossed New York City the year prior. Nothing could touch him now.

He changed his shirt to hide the scent of Jet, gathered his things, and went to meet Garrett in the lobby. Although the casino floor was crowded, the sound of the slot machine disbursements clanged less frequently that the night before. After some searching, he found Garrett with a pack over his shoulder and his gun duffle in his hand, talking with the group of ghouls from yesterday. He looked unhappy, which was atypical for easy-going Garrett.

Spying John’s arrival, Garrett jerked his head toward the front doors, where the activists still assembled. Their numbers had apparently grown. The streets seem to be filled, bodies blocking most of the daylight from streaming through the glass. “Careful,” he warned. “Someone kicked the hornets’ nest.”

John found himself giggling. “Heh. Buzz,” he said, picturing winged insects as tall as a man, picketing in the streets.

Garrett gave him a critical look, heavy brows lowering. “We’re gonna go claim _Wanderer_ ,” he informed, ignoring John’s mirth. “I don’t trust crowds. People in big groups tend to get crazy.” To John’s surprise, he didn’t hand over John’s shotgun, keeping the duffle sealed. “Just stay close. We’ll push through. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Not gonna give me my gun?” John asked as the two of them broke away to make for the exit.

“The fewer weapons seen, the better. Nervous people get stupid. I’ve seen it.”

John found himself wondering if Garrett meant during his Ranger service or before the war. He glued himself to Garrett’s side as they slipped though one of the doors and out into the seaside air. The doors had been muffling the outside noise. He would have been deafened had he taken Mentats instead of the Jet. Instead, the shouting and chants rolled over him, not quite hitting him full-force. It was a struggle to made out the words.

_“Peterson is a coward! The Mojave is only the beginning! No to the New Eastern Republic!”_

A second group was present today. This sizable mob was pushing in from the opposite side of the street. A number of these people carried flags, some were the old world variety, ones what John recognized as the adapted California flag, and, alarmingly, a few Enclave versions. One banner was orange, with a rounded, fancy-looking emblem on it that he couldn’t place. This side was countering with, _“Take back the Commonwealths! Support Kimball and the law! We’re all the Republic!”_

“What are they yelling about?” John barked into Garrett’s ear. He still felt hazy, and held onto the ghoul’s arm to ground himself.

“City people,” Garrett scoffed, snorting. “The NCR is making a push into the Mojave,” he explained as they wove through the throng. “Came over the radio yesterday. Probably happened a while back and we’re just hearing about it now.”

“So?” Maybe it was the Jet cloud, but John couldn’t nail down why people were so upset.

A wall of bodies blocked their path, causing them to edge sideways. “People like to pretend they care. Maybe it gives their lives meaning. Spreading any government’s influence means knocking opposition out of the way. A couple of southwestern tribes got mowed down in the advance.”

That familiar gurgle of injustice brewed in John’s throat. “You’re kinda blasé about the NCR killing people,” he admonished.

“So goes war. Winning means someone loses.” Garrett kept pushing forward at a slow pace, not bothering to look back. “You think these people really care about what happened twenty-five hundred miles away? Before this, they’d probably never heard of the NCR. They’re worried about what this means for them. That maybe that some centralized administration will push all the way to the eastern seaboard.”

“Will it?”

“Pfft. Not without dire assistance.”

“From wh–”

Someone discharged a weapon, maybe into the sky, maybe into the crowd. John had no way to know. The bang echoed off the surrounding hotels, making the source impossible to pinpoint. The crowd surged outwards in a mad scramble. A few more shots sounded in retaliation. The clash no longer had anything to do with NCR occupation. It became a whirlwind of aggression and vengeance, bystanders and city folk caught in the center. Several people collided into John, causing him to lose his hold on Garrett’s arm. In an instant, the small ghoul was swallowed up by the panicked mob.

That panic spread to reach deep into John. He hadn’t lost track of Garrett since meeting him. Sure, John tended to wander now and again, but that was his choice, and the ghoul always found him. His stomach clenched as he realized that Garrett still had their guns. Caught in a vortex of chaos and angry, scared people prepared to shoot, John’s stomach clenched as he realized Garrett still had their guns.

Well, he might not have had his gun, but John wasn’t entirely defenseless. He broke away from the swell of people and hunkered down behind the frame of an upended taxi cab. Finding his situation a convincing incentive, John plucked a syringe full of Psycho from his pocket. Already reckless from the Jet, he pried the cap off and dispensed the solution into his arm as people rushed by on all sides. He had never experienced Psycho before, but he knew where _Wanderer_ was. Getting to it would be the trick. With the chem’s assistance, he’d be able to push though and get clear of the crowd. Garrett would certainly be on his way there now, and that’s where they would meet.

The surge of adrenaline almost knocked him off his feet. A fast-burning fire crackled and spread down his body from the inside out. Blood rushed in his veins – life, drive, and impulse. Heightened senses of fight or flight threatened to blow out the back of his mind, too forceful, too wild. John lost sight of his objective. He was supposed to…do something. His confusion only fed the building firestorm within.

His reactions were instinctual, reason and thought extinguished. The next person to knock into him received a blow to the head that split John’s knuckles. He snagged a second one by the arm and wrenched what he identified as something dangerous from her hand. When he felt his own hand burn, he comprehended what he had grabbed, and lobbed the flaming bottle overhead. The Molotov burst a dozen feet away. People dove, rolling to put out the flames or dislodge glass. John’s bomb set off a chain reaction; balls of flame were erupting right and left as the gathering became a full-scale riot. 

As he stood, watching fire and gunplay engulf the crowd, something solid hit him, tackling him to the ground. He thrashed, reaching with splayed fingers to gouge the eyes of his attacker. Garrett’s hands found his wrists first, pinning John into submission. Shifting, he dragged John to one side of the roadway, hauling him into the shadow between buildings. Something in John’s brain screamed at him to submit, that things would settle now, but his body refused to comply. He spun, kicking at the ghoul, trying to break free.

Garrett countered, using his legs to trap John, leaning heavily on top of him. “Stop it!” he snarled. “What’s wrong with you?”

John could only voice mindless screaming. He kept yelling, feeling his throat tear as the rage ran its course. The pressure that Garrett had put on him never let up.

Minutes passed as John watched countless legs run by. His senses began trickling back, comprehension returning as his heart rate slowed. His tongue felt thick when he finally said, “I’m good. Lemme up.”

“What is so damn unreasonable about keeping your head down!” Garrett hissed between his teeth as he separated himself. “After that first Molotov dropped, I saw you standing there. You laughed, did you know that? Looked real damn pleased. Good people got hurt.”

John sat up, but didn’t stand, clutching the spot where the Molotov had scorched his hand. The suffering he’d caused was palpable. It felt it suffocating him, a solid mass in his chest. “I didn’t...I didn’t mean to. It was just –”

“Just your goddamn chems, right?” Garrett bit. “What was it? Fury? Psycho?”

Hanging his head, John elected not to answer. “Where’s your gun bag?” he asked, noticing.

Looking disgusted, Garrett answered, “I lost it when you started a hail of flame. Things were manageable up until then.” He gave a sickened sound and stepped back, shaking his head. “You don’t listen and it’s like you don’t even care. One of these days, you’re gonna die in a crowd. And I won’t be there to watch it.”

John had never been more ashamed of himself. “…did people die because of me?” he asked in a weak voice.

Not one to sugar-coat anything, Garrett responded, “Yeah, probably.”

The ghoul had rescued him once again, only this time, it had been from himself. John paled to wonder what would happen once Garrett reached his limit. He kept waiting to find himself toeing that line. Would this be the incident that would finally cause Garrett to leave him alone in the unforgiving Wasteland?

“I’ll pay you triple the next two months,” was the apology that came out of his mouth.

Garrett peered out into the street, a distant expression on his gnarled face. “Whatever,” he grumbled. “Like I need the caps.”


	7. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode theme: [Bad Company [Female Version] - Bad Company](https://youtu.be/ZNN1dUrAyT0/)

GARRETT

Highway Estates, PA

May 28th, 2271

Garrett was on his knees, attending to _Wanderer_ in his fatigue pants and a once-white shirt. Through the open garage door of a Red Rocket, the late afternoon sunshine gave enough throw to clearly see what he was doing. Most of his armor was stacked in a corner, allowing him free range to slide under the motorcycle or reach past the vehicle’s add-ons to provide proper care. The wide blade mounted on the front had plowed through a couple of super mutants outside of York during a mad dash through the area, and he was grimacing as he carefully scrubbed gore off the corroded metal with a damp cloth. Up close, it was clear that the edge of the curved blade was raged from time, rusted and deadly. Once done, he shifted over to the detached tires to scrape muck from their treads with the flat head of a screwdriver.

The area was quiet, almost sleepy, just a long stretch of highway in either direction, interrupted by the gas station he was in and the motel on the opposite side of the roadway. The convenience store adjacent to the Red Rocket had been looted and burned quite some time ago, but the garage still stood. A small herd of radstags grazed nearby, the spotted fawns frolicking between mounds of patchy grass and across crumbled asphalt. 

A radio, perched atop a filing cabinet in a far counter of the garage, sat in silence. Garrett had experienced his fill of news lately. Recently, word had reached him that the Desert Rangers, his old unit, had entered an accord with the New California Republic and had inherited the Nevada as an additional region to patrol. What an embarrassing downfall. A bunch of Mojave locals playing dress up and armed with pointy sticks had brought the Desert Rangers to their knees, sending them crawling for help to their neighbors in the west. Garrett was pleased to have left them when he had.

Although, if he had to be honest with himself, it had been a struggle to find direction after leaving his position. Now, he felt like a fish in a stream, fighting to swim against the current to avoid getting brained against a rock, caught up in motion with no purpose. It was a little frightening that he couldn’t nail down a path for himself. He had to wonder if the apathy about his own life came from the feral within, ready to pick out a nice piece of derelict real estate and shuffle its halls for eternity. Something nagged at him, a distinct feeling that time was ticking down, and that he would meet his end on the east coast.If he was lucky, one decidedly good thing would happen because of him and he would be remembered for that. Not for the fame, not for the honors, but for permanence. For immortality through action.

He screwed the cap off a bottle of Buffout and shook a single tablet out. Crunching it, he replaced his tools as he waited for the effect to take hold. _Whoof._ There’s it was – a throb in his muscles that gave way to a rush of adrenaline. With the chem’s help, he easily lifted the oversized tires and remounted them before the sun dipped over the horizon. Other than the brief increase in strength, Garrett felt no ill effect. Others occasionally felt agitation or irrepressible rage, but he seemed to be immune to the ugly downside of chem use.

He blamed himself for John’s current state. Garrett’s high tolerance for substances was due in part to his ghoul body along with his strong will. He was balanced with his vices in check. By comparison, John was a mess – some type of deficiency in his constitution. It had been wrong to introduce him to the world of pharmaceuticals. He had known this was true as soon as he had done it.

The last few months had been a series of rescues from bad trips and the struggle to keep John safe had definitely earned Garrett his paycheck. For the first time in decades, Garrett wasn’t hurting for caps. John paid him more than necessary, probably knowing that his erratic behavior had become incorrigible. Garrett honestly hadn’t minded – most people in the Wastes were some form of crazy – but when John’s writing had dwindled, his concern had shot up. Garrett was beginning to miss the wide-open halls and stunning designed libraries that they had formerly resided in. Now, John pushed for them to stop at the less reputable locations, and for lengthy amounts of time to boot. When John insisted on separate rooms when they found themselves in places large enough to offer the option, Garrett was paranoid, afraid to go to sleep and leave John unattended. Even now, with John holed up in the neighboring motel to supposedly ‘write’ as Garrett worked, the ghoul was nervous to leave him alone. He would have welcomed the privacy if not for fearing what John was up to on the other side of the wall.

It had already gotten late when he pocketed the wires and cables that made _Wanderer_ run, cradled his armor to his chest and slid the garage door closed. The location lacked ideal security, but it wasn’t as if he was going far. Besides, he had selected a room in motel that directly overlooked the range. And he had a sniper rifle.

No one was attending the front desk in the motel office. Garrett sighed. Some stopovers offered a selection of regional food with the purchase of a room. Not today, it seemed. Looked like he’d be dining out of boxes tonight. He gagged a little at the idea, and prayed that John hadn’t already eaten everything but the deviled eggs. Going to bed hungry was a better option than downing those sulfuric things. In an effort to keep John safe in his room, Garrett had left their provisions with him.

Climbing the outdoor stairs up to their rooms, he squeezed past a wandering doctor and her guards, on their way to turning in. He gave them a cordial nod as he went by. It always helped to stay friendly with Wasteland medics. If they turned skittish and resigned, too many people would be out of luck.

He stopped before John’s room. “Checking in,” he called.

No answer.

Garrett shifted his armor so that he could rap on the door with his knuckles. “C’mon, man. Open up.”

While waiting for a response, he watched the motel sign’s running lights go in a full cycle around the vacancy notice. He counted as the trail made a lop-sided rectangle, each pass lasting forty-five seconds.

He tried again. _Pound, pound, pound._ “John!”

The door finally cracked open. Garrett was hit by the stinking perfume of Jet vapor. He wore his best poker face as he asked, “Get any writing done today?”

“Are we leavin’?” John slurred, purposefully avoided eye contact.

Taken back, Garrett frowned. “…nooo. We just got here this morning.”

“Then fuck off.”

That surprised Garrett. Normally, John had better manners than to curse at his only employee. “I guess writer’s block is an unforgiving bitch,” he jested, and tried to enter.

John blocked the door, shoving the ghoul back. It took a great deal of restraint to resist knocking John flat. This wasn’t the first time John had tested Garrett’s patience by laying hands on him. The scrawny human was no threat, but Garrett was exhausted. He’d been able to keep a mounting sense of alarm by bay as long of John was still able to focus his attention on his work. But how long had it been since he had sent a manuscript to the Commonwealth? Two months? Three?

Breathe in, breathe out. Garrett kept his cool. “Dude…gimme my shit.”

John glared at him from under dirty hair that fell to his shoulders **.** He had an assortment of pendants strung from cords around his neck – a .308 casing, a claw from some mutated creature, a few pieces of metal or polished rock – things that he had found fascinating for whatever reason. Dark circles were etched under his eyes and his skin was waxy. Although late in his teen years, John looked like a drifter past his prime. When he turned to grab Garrett’s pack, the ghoul noted that the billowy white sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, the crooks of his elbows exposed.

 _What are you getting into, John?_ Garrett pondered. Getting abruptly fired for asking the wrong question wasn’t part of his immediate plan.

John handed the pack to Garrett, careful to block the view of the room with his body. As Garrett tossed the bag over a shoulder, John brought a rare bottle of rum to his lips. Well, it wasn’t as if John couldn’t afford it. If he had a hat, he’d look like a drunken pirate.

Before he departed, Garrett did dare to give the warning, “If you go to sleep drunk a _nd_ high, you’re gonna stop breathing. Pick one or the other.”

John slammed the door in reply.

In the next room over, Garrett dumped his armor and sat down on his bed to dig through the pack. The eggs were gone, thank goodness. He wondered how bad it would be to pour Nuka over cereal. Too bad to try, he concluded. He made a meal of dry cereal, cram, and an apple, almost the type of American breakfast he remembered, just missing the orange juice.

When he was done, he got up to open the window facing the garage. He propped the sniper rifle by its sill and lit a cigarette. He leaned partway out, enjoying the warm spring air as it brushed over his withered face. 

He tried not to blame John for acting like the petulant teenager that he was. Still, in the time that they had known each other, it seemed that Garrett was being pushed into the role of stern parent, something that had become a long-brewing discontent. It had never been his intent to serve as a father figure, before the war or after. He had grown to enjoy the company of other battle-hardened soldiers, or ghouls that shared the same life experiences that he had. John was still a child – albeit, a financially blessed one – that remained a liability. And if chasing his whims was going to waste the rest of Garrett’s life, he just couldn’t stand for it.

Leaving the window, he knocked on the thin wall dividing them. “I know you can hear me. Look, John…I don’t know if this is right anymore. It seems like…you’ve kinda lost your way.” Garrett made a quick attempt at softening how that sounded. “Not that I blame you, it’s just…not how I’m comfortable operating. I’m sorry, but…I don’t know if we should keep going. Together, I mean.”

He heard something from the other side of the wall, a gasp or wheeze…or sob. Garrett felt awful for giving up on the guy and for making him weep, but he wasn’t going to be dragged around from one dark alley to another for the rest of his days. No way. Being alone was better than being a puppet.

“I’m not angry, if that matters,” Garret insisted, “but I’m…not happy. I’m just not.” He frowned, sucking another puff on his cigarette. “If I’m on limited time – and I am – I’ve got to do what’s right for me. And I think that means splitting up.”

He paused waiting for a response, a curse, something thrown at the wall, anything.

“John?”

Nothing.

He pressed his ear to the wall. “John?” he tried again. With creeping alarm, he added, “Are you okay?”

No sound.

Garrett wasn’t sure what set him off. Perhaps his hearing caught something so subtle that he couldn’t even identify what it was, but bright, hot panic charged through his veins. He shoved away from the wall and tore the door open. Swinging around, he beat a forceful rhythm on John’s door. “John! If you don’t say something right now, I’m coming in!” 

Still nothing.

After trying the knob – locked – Garrett backed up and delivered a savage kick to the cheap wooden door. It immediately splintered, although it took several more kicks to break it down entirely. Shoving the broken pieces of door aside, Garrett wiggled into the room.

Splayed out on the motel bed lay John, one of his boot laces still tied around his arm, a puddle of vomit pooled by his pillow. His lips were blue and his skin whiter than the sheet he lay on. His chest neither rose nor fell **.**

Garrett took one look at him and sprang into action. He threw himself down the hall instead, banging on each door until he found the one with the wandering doctor in it. In over his head and dazed, his mind had ejected all of his medic training. He all but dragged the woman, her guards hot in pursuit, to John’s room.

She took immediate assessment, clearing John’s air way and beginning chest compressions. The doctor yelled for her guards to fetch her supplies and crush several tablets of Fixer into a fine powder. As John finally took a breath, he instantly started choking, throwing up again. When he began seizing, Garrett turned away. At that point, everything turned a little hazy for him.

All in all, the doctor worked on John for over twenty-six minutes. Garrett knew this because he timed it, looking out of the busted door with his back to the action, counting as the running lights of the vacancy sign chased themselves in an endless loop. Each cycle took forty-five seconds to complete. He remembered.

He had never lost an employer or partner to chems before. Garrett had always assumed that was the type of thing that happened to vagrants and madmen, not eloquent writers or fresh-faced kids.

By the time the doctor pronounced John stable, a tremor had built in Garrett hands. He clenched his fists to keep from visibly shaking as he turned back around. On the bed, John was rolling from side to side, still out of it. A cluster of empty syringes filled the side table, both from John’s use and the doctor’s. Garrett swallowed bile.

He overpaid the doctor, her aftercare instructions barely filtering in.

At her leave, taking her entourage with her, Garrett approached John. He slipped his arms underneath John’s legs and arms and carried him back to the other room. Garrett nudged his pack to the floor with his foot, and gently placed John on the clean sheets of his own bed.

Slowly, he lowered himself to take a seat on the corner of the bed. “John,” he called softly, still feeling like he was trapped in a tunnel. “Can you hear me?”

John gave him the slightest of nods.

“You’re a real selfish asshole, you know that?” Garrett spat.

His voice hoarse and low, John whispered, “Didn’t mean to upset you.”

Reality came back into focus with brutal force. “You _didn’t mean to upset me_? Well, thank fucking God!” Garrett leapt of the bed, pacing in a full circle as he spouted, “I didn’t sign up for this and sure as hell want to be done with it!” Stopping to glare, he pleaded, “Help me. I can’t take care of both of us. Right now, it’s a hundred percent on me. I never thought you’d be such an idiot with chems. Do you even wanna stop?”

John didn’t bother opening his eyes or turning his head. “…yes.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Garrett growled. “Ya say it and ya say it and you never do.”

“You gonna keep working for me?” John dared to ask.

That brazen question was the last straw. “It’s not looking great,” was Garrett’s honest answer. Feeling worn to the bone and hollowed out, he added, “John…you’re asking me to sit back and watch while you kill yourself. And I won’t do that.”

John didn’t say anything else after that.

The ghoul spent the rest of the night curled up on the floor next to the bed, listening to John breathe. When he finally fell asleep he must have dozed hard, because John was gone when he woke.

Garrett rose to find a stuffed duffle in the center of the motel room. The contents jingled when he kicked it. When he zipped the bag open, he found more bottlecaps than he’d even seen in his life. He stuck splayed fingers into the stash and waggled them. The ridged edges of the caps felt cool to the touch. There was a note spread over the heap.

 _This is all I have to offer. A hero like you could truly do some good out there._ _Don’t throw your life away for anyone._

  * _J_



That letter managed to be the catalyst that finally succeeded in pissing him off. How like John to throw money at someone rather than barter an understanding. He tore the letter, crumpled it, and tossed it into a corner. Through the window, he saw raindrops falling outside. Good. The weather matched his mood – stormy outside and stormy inside.

After donning his armor and rucksack, he lifted the hefty bag of caps and headed down the stairs to the motel office. Although their rooms had been paid for in advance, he offered the old man at the desk extra for John’s destroyed door. _This must be what it feels like_ , Garrett thought, as he plunked stacks of bottlecaps on the counter, _to handle things retrospectively_. Busted door? Extra caps. Overdose? Extra caps. Dragging some ghoul around for years? Paid him extra caps. No big deal.

Returning to the garage, he secured his newly-acquired payout to the back of _Wanderer_ ’s carriage and set to work plugging the wires back into the engine, all the while hating John for wasting his time. Maybe it was his youth that made him negligent. Maybe it was due to Garrett corrupting him with the ways of the Wastes. _Chems, drinks, and patience – what weak-willed fool couldn’t handle those? Why did everything John do have to be some grand, extreme event?_

The engine spat to life with a harsh snarl. Garrett took his place on the seat and maneuvered out into the roadway, rain pelting the visor of his flight helmet. Before gaining speed, he stopped, engaging the brake and jumping down. He rifled through the bag and cases strapped to _Wanderer,_ peeking into each in quick succession. All the guns were accounted for. John had gone off empty-handed. Garrett gave an embittered bellow. _Goddamn this guy._ The kid wasn’t going to change the world, no matter how much he wished to. He wasn’t going to do anything other than die from drugs, bullets, or worse.

So much for a legacy. So much for doing anything to be remembered by. Maybe the Desert Rangers had a file on Garrett, but he even doubted that. All he had was a flag in a case and the bitter memory of a long-lost world where he had planned on spending two years serving before going back home to his family.

Something in John had inspired him; the kid had a gift like that. Garrett had lulled himself into believing that he would play some part in the creation of a new world that only John could envision, that if he could just keep the guy alive long to fulfill his purpose, he’d be remembered. And being alone again…Garrett wasn’t sure how he could deal with that.

 **“** Fuck you, John McDonough,” he spouted, tearing off his helmet. He ran back to the motel office, boots splashing though the mud. Skidding inside, he shouted to the elderly attendant, “The kid with the long hair – did you see him this morning?”

“E-yup,” said the man, chewing on what had to be a wad of tobacco. “Took off mighty early. Saw him headed east to Death’s Head Canyon. Woulda stopped him but my knees get creaky when it rains. Troublemakers gather round those parts. The girls wear metal hooter holsters. Ain’t that the darnedest –”

“Got it. Thanks!” Garrett affirmed, waving. He jammed the helmet back on.

Sounded like a raider hangout. John was an idiot about to make a fatal mistake. Garrett engaged a hurried chase to catch up to him on _Wanderer_.

He slowed the bike to a cautious roll as a row of piked heads came into view, ready to grab the assault rifle on the dash, on the lookout for mohawks and tarnished metal armor. Garrett stopped and dismounted, discarding his helmet and detaching the rifle from the handles. He yanked the engine wires, and continued on foot, praying that rainfall would cover his approach.

Not far from where he had parked, several plywood panels had been erected by the side of the road, gun slits cut into them, the wood darkening in the rain. Rows of barbed wire and chain held the pieces together.

Above the staccato of water hitting asphalt, he could hear the sound of a tussle, of men’s voices raised and cursing. As Garrett eased around the roadside partition, he found three raiders already dead on the ground, their blood mixing with the rain and running into puddles. The wounds hadn’t been caused by bullets.

On the other side of the makeshift wall, past the dirty mattresses and shelves stacked with chems and ammo, John was tussling with what seemed to be the final raider. He was pinning the man against a tree, trying to slip his knife in between gaps of rusted armor as he avoided blows from a tire iron. Sliding close enough to press his body to the raider’s, John slowly dragged the blade of his knife across the man’s exposed throat, staring into the guy’s eyes while he did it. The spray of blood caught John in the face, drenching him. With a gurgle, the raider slumped, and John sank to the ground with him, his knife plunging down again and again, shoving the blade in wherever he could, caught in a loop of violent retaliation as he screamed like a banshee.

John was covered in blood, almost unrecognizable through the sheet of arterial spray that covered him. Apparently, he had absorbed some of Garrett’s combat instructions, and he wasn’t nearly as helpless as he led on. It was baffling as to why he’d been standing at the sidelines during all the fights they’d been part of. Maybe he didn’t like the confrontation. Maybe he didn’t like getting his hands dirty. Maybe he’d rather others take the karmic hit for him.

Charging up, Garrett discarded his rifle and grabbed for John’s wrists, wresting the knife from his hand. It went tumbling to the ground and Garrett kicked it out of reach. Having no idea what John was hopped up on, Garrett realized full well how dangerous he was. “He’s dead!” he shouted, trying to pull John away from the body. “John! It’s over!”

Whatever he had in his system still raging rampant, John tried to squirm out of Garrett’s clutches. The ghoul doubled his efforts, crossing John’s arms and holding him securely to his chest, dragging him away. John continued to kick and wiggle, still yelling, crying out and pressing forward against Garrett’s strong arms. “Let go of me!” John ordered, in hysterics.

Garrett obeyed, releasing him, and John stumbled into a puddle as thunder rumbled overhead. “Jesus, John,” he said, in disbelief. “How are you even able to stand after last night?”

John shoved himself up and turned on Garrett, hunkered down like a predator. Splashed mud and dripping blood painted his face like a mask. It dribbled from his hair as he stood panting, his shoulders heaving up and down. “Why are you here? You aren’t supposed to be here!”

“John…I’m on your side,” Garrett tried to convince him, his heart hurting for all the shock and confusion John must be feeling. “We’re friends. I couldn’t just leave you.”

When John laughed, muddied and matted with blood, he looked ugly, like some nightmarish creature taking perverse joy. “We are _not_ friends. You and me, we were never _friends_. You don’t know anything about me.” His laughing was manic, tinged with anger. “I didn’t come out of a vault,” he confessed, holding his arms out in a _you-caught-me_ kind of way. “I knew how the world was. I just didn’t have a reason to care. Thought, maybe it wouldn’t matter to somebody like me. Thought I could stand it. Thought I was better than everyone else.” A sick smile cut across his face. “I’m rich. Once upon a time, my family was famous, did things that mattered, saved people, built things. But me…” He broke off, shaking his head. John laughed again, but this time he was crying too. His tears and the rain cut clear trails through the blood on his face. “There’s something wrong with me. It’s not like I can’t control myself. I _want_ to do the chems. I like it,” he said in a reverent whisper. “I try. I try and do the right thing, but everyone gets dragged down with me. So, don’t you ever be my friend,” John concluded. “All my friends die.”

Garrett, who had been standing in silent awe throughout John’s entire admission, wasn’t surprised. It had become a game of sorts, waiting to see when the truth would spill put. John’s story had too many holes in it but, as it hadn’t really mattered, Garrett hadn’t pushed for details. “John,” he said in a low and comforting manner. “I do know you. You’re a smart guy that wants better things for the world. Normal people don’t think that way. You’re no quitter. And neither am I. I don’t want your money.”

Shaking his head, John looked skeptical. “Then what do you want?” He was clearly coming down from his chems now, breathing hard and a tremble vibrating through his limbs.

Shrugging, Garrett said, “How about an apology, for starters? If you agree, I’d like to stay at your side. Not because you need it but… because maybe I do.”

Neither said anything for a moment. Swaying slightly where he stood, John stared at the ground, pinkish beads of water rolling off his chin. “Nothing out here is alright. How do you get by? How does anyone get by?”

Feeling helpless, Garrett reached out and tugged him into an embrace. John ducked his head, shielding his face against the ghoul’s shoulder and sagging in his arms. As his standard calmness resettled, Garrett found himself saying, “I was drafted straight outta school and then the rads got me. I never got to be a kid. Never got to make mistakes. And I sure as hell never had anyone that cared after the bombs fell. I couldn’t save my sisters…but maybe I can save you.”

John came to life, pushing out of Garrett’s hold. “I ain’t built for this kinda life. You are. You’re not broken. You go through centuries and you’re just fine.” He gave a hearty exhalation, his voice raising as he questioned, “How are you not broken?”

So many ghouls had given up, content to sit and wait for oblivion. He could see why John didn’t understand. “I see things exactly as they are,” he explained as simply as he could. “I don’t really miss the past and I don’t have plans for the future. I exist exactly where I am. What I can do right now, that’s what matters. I want to do more good than damage. And I believe that helping you is what I should be doing.”

John stood there, soaking up Garrett’s words as well as the rain. He looked drenched and pitiful as he said, “…I’m sorry, Gare.”

Garrett gave him a light smile. “I believe you.”

A low snarl startled them both. They swung their heads to face the noise. Shuffling through the rain, a pair of ferals emerged around either side of the rickety raider outpost, drawn by the sound of the fight, anticipating an easy meal of the losing side.

“Stay with me. Or don’t. It’s your choice,” Garrett told John in a whisper. He felt a slight pull of remorse as he watched the ferals feed, adding, “This is where I go. My evolution. I’ve been a solider, a survivor, a fighter…but never a hero. In the end, it won’t matter.” 

John was edging closer to him, wiping at his face with his bare hands, cleaning it best as he could. “When you think it’s gonna happen?” he asked, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing attention.

Crouching as he searched for John’s knife and his rifle, Garrett answered, “No telling. Could be that a hundred years from now, there won’t be any ghouls.” Snagging the weapons, he stood. “Not, you know, ones like me. Might have all lost our minds by then. One day, we’ll all be extinct.”

Quietly, John watched the ferals. “I want us to stay together,” he confessed. “But I don’t think I should be the one making the calls.”

“That’s one hell of a great idea,” Garrett agreed, handing John’s knife back. “See? I told ya you were smart.” He reached to take John’s arm, steering him towards _Wanderer._ There were never just two ferals. Sure enough, by the time he and John had reached the motorcycle, no less than seven were feasting on the bodies of John’s victims.

The spring shower broke as they mounted the vehicle, a light misting of rainfall dusting them as the sun tried valiantly to break through the cloud cover.

“Do me a solid?” Garrett asked, after affixing the assault rifle to the dash once more.

“What do you need?” John wondered, wringing saturation from his hair.

“In the offhand chance that it happens sooner rather than later…don’t leave me like that,” He gestured to the mass of gobbling ferals. “Okay? Don’t just leave me to wander, like a mindless zombie.”

“I’ll be there,” John answered, leaving out the promise to end it, to put a bullet in Garrett’s brain and relieve him of this plane.

Garrett forgave him for it. Maybe John wasn’t ready yet. But he’d have to be.

They secured their helmets and _Wanderer_ carried them off, leaving the past where it was.  


	8. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode theme: [The Verve - Bittersweet Symphony (Pa Trick Looper Cover)](https://youtu.be/OCLD0Y1_2uE/)

JOHN

The Colombia Commonwealth

January 21st, 2272

Maryland had a dismal quality to it, devoid of color and dry as old bones. Bare plains and hilltops were cut through with fissures and canyons, the spires of long dead pine trees serving as grave markers acknowledging the ravaged countryside.

“You sure you know where we’re headed?” John asked, shading his eyes with a hand as he squinted at the landscape. A spit of static made him turn his head.

They were parked atop the highest ridge _Wanderer_ could reach. While John took in the sights, Garrett was pacing back and forth, twisting the dial on a handheld radio by fractions, trying to capture a specific channel. “ _Find the station with the good music and follow it_. Pretty simple instructions.” He angled the antenna in a few different directions. A voice would intermittently spill from the speaker, only to dissolve into either static or silence a second later. The ghoul huffed and lowered the radio. “Maybe we’re not close enough.” Pulling a roll of duct tape from his supplies, he secured the radio to the motorcycle’s dash. “C’mon. Signal was strongest from the south.” He strolled back to _Wanderer_ , settling himself in the driver’s seat.

“It’s nice,” John called to him, as chilly winter a breeze ruffled his short ponytail.

Fumbling for his helmet, Garrett looked up. “Huh? What is?”

Waving an arm at the background of Columbia, John indicated a settlement in the distance, a place where a cluster of ground-level shacks sat in a circle, protected by the tall fence that surrounded it. “There’re no levels, no obvious class system. Speaking as someone who used to live in a towering statue, lemme tell you – most folks think that levels are pretty important.”

“I’m more impressed with the fence,” Garrett said glibly, flipping the visor down on his flight helmet.

Zipping up his leather jacket, John shot him a contemptuous smirk before climbing up behind him. With his arms tight around Garrett’s middle – as usual, as always – they headed south, chasing the radiowave.

 John knew that there would always be some piece of Garrett that looked down on modern humans, on their infighting and _petty problems_ , as he put it. His flippancy was a ruse, though. John knew that Garrett’s loyalty and decency would always win out against any bias. He had been a solider both before and after the war, had consciously decided to fight for this new nation and those within it despite what any the inhabitants thought of him. Many considered him a monster, something worthy of nothing less than a swift demise. The ghoul was John’s best friend and guardian – he was allowed to feel defensive.  

With Garrett calling the shots, choosing their direction and destinations, John felt as if his probation had given way to a true partnership. The ghoul was a good judge of Wasteland administration, picking places and finding people that inspired John’s learning, keeping him well fed with a constant stream of insight and information. He never second-guessed at Garrett’s plans; he knew more about the Wasteland than John ever would.

 For too long, he had lied and tried to keep his relationship with chems a secret. Now open about his use, John didn’t try and escape the ghoul’s presence; when Garrett asked if he was alright, John could give him a straight answer. He knew that Garrett didn’t look down on him for imbibing, but simply wanted to ensure his safety, be it from bullets or needles. When he chose to get intentionally intoxicated, he did it out at bars or in a group, with Garrett in tow to watch over him, enjoying his high in the company of other people rather than hiding himself away to trip alone. Garrett gave him wide clearance when he was writing though, as not to trample his thoughts while he wrote of trade routes and accounting while exploiting the intense focus that came with Mentat use, the only chem he took without supervision.

Traveling along a disjointed road, the Capital Wastes flew by in an endless milieu of brown. Expansive sections of overpass would travel overhead as they drove, enormous shadows swallowing them for a fraction before spitting them out into daylight again. They were now on their second handheld radio. Garrett had dashed the first one against a rock when it had broadcast, “ _This is John Henry_ –”, and had avoided that frequency ever since. Instead of spewing propaganda, the other notable channel churned through a list of severely outdated songs, a live disk jockey cutting in between each rotation. As they drew nearer to the source, the channel became clearer. A live feed chatted at them from the dash about current events and hearsay. “And as a reminder, children,” a nearly crystal-clear voice prompted over the feed, “be kind to one another out there. We’re all in this post-apocalyptian paradise together. So, help each other out – your brother, your neighbor, heck, even the ghouls down in the Mall. You never know who might have your back on a bad day, so you best cover your bases. Bringing you more freedom than you can handle, this is Three Dog.” The guy actually howled as a sign-off.

The ruins of D.C. loomed in the distance, dull and gray and eroded. “Well,” Garrett said, shouting over the rush of air as he drove. “The man’s an optimist.”

After wide loop around the city, they stashed _Wanderer_ in a place called Takoma Park. Garrett handed John a shotgun _and_ a plasma pistol before they went down into the Metro Tunnels. John raised a brow in surprise. It wasn’t often that the ghoul had such faith in his gunplay. Shrugging, Garrett said, “Maybe I’m optimistic now, too.” He then did something strange – handed John the cables to _Wanderer_ for safekeeping, as if John had been paying enough attention to be able to rewire the vehicle without help. Still, he stuffed them inside of the satchel he wore without protest.

When they emerged from the subway line, minus a few rounds of ammunition and carrying a nearly depleted flashlight, the upsetting sound of automatic gunfire greeted them. They hunched in the metro entryway as the noise reached a crescendo, waiting for the din to fade away. Scuttling up to the first few steps, they looked out at a stretch of torn-up battlefield. Sandbag walls and barricades shielded deep trenches, blocking the parkway between them and a number of neo-classical buildings made of marble, granite and elaborate stonework cravings. They were beautiful, and seemingly out-of-place in this clearly designated combat zone.

Garrett nudged John in the shoulder, a simple _follow me_ order. John stuck close as the ghoul made a hunkered weave through the blockade, keeping distance between them and the fight. Peeking around a barrier, John caught sight of the combatants. He was glad to be sober. Pushing further and further away, a tight line of disciplined soldiers in clunky-looking armored suits were laying waste to a screeching horde of mutants. Bullets and laser blasts left the air cloudy with smoke and burnt ozone.

He tugged on Garrett’s bracer, asking, “Who are they?”

Garrett peered around the other side of the barrier before sliding back to John’s side and winking. “Looks like those are the good guys.”

“I’d head back underground if I were you,” a grating voice rasped, calling across the arena. “Got no patience for the likes of your kind.”

Both he and Garrett snapped their weapons up, searching for the caller. Garrett stilled and John followed the sight on the ghoul’s automatic rifle straight to the person who had shouted. A second ghoul was looking down a hunting rifle at them. The ghoul was in a courtyard sheltered on three sides by a tall building. More of those elaborate carvings depicting huge faces looked down on them from building’s façade.

“What do you mean _your kind_?” Garrett shouted back, his rifle pointing firm. “Your skin’s as rad-eaten as mine.”

“Not you, you dumb brute.” The second ghoul was female and her disdain was clear. “Your smoothskin. When you see a ghoul with a human, normal assumption is that one owns the other. Which is which, well, that’s pretty standard.”

Garrett lowered his rifle. “Well, you’ve got it backwards,” he clarified. “I’m in charge.”

John made a face at how callous this discussion sounded, as if he wasn’t even there. He realized that this was probably how ghouls felt most times and felt a surge of guilt, not because of anything he’d done, but due to the circumstances that his race had created.

The barrel of the hunting rifle wavered, then dropped. “If you’re coming in, you might wanna take precautions and have your pal here walk in front of you,” she suggested. “The Brotherhood of Steel sticks snipers on the rooftops to pick off wayward ghouls. Use your smoothskin as a meat shield and you might get by.” She fell back, retreating out of sight.

As Garrett shifted the weight of his heavy travel pack so that he could sling his rifle strap around a shoulder, John pinned him with questions. “What’s going on? Going in where? Gare, where’d you bring me?” John never pestered him with questions about their destinations; he didn’t know the names of most places in the Wasteland. He trusted Garrett and had no reason to doubt his decisions.

A tense expression passed over Garrett’s face. “For years, I’ve been taking you places where you needed to go. This trip…this one stop is for me.”

John simply nodded. He owed the ghoul too much to push for further answers.

Sliding up behind John, Garrett put hands over his ribs, pressing in tight, an inverted image of how they must look on the motorcycle. Good thing the ghoul was so short. Sandwiched between John and the big pack shielding him from the back, this could almost work.

After a suspenseful but uneventful stroll, they found themselves before one of the museums. It had to be a museum – one of the signs in the Metro said that this Mall was full of them. They broke apart once they got inside.

They were met by a dimly lit lobby decorated with several collapsed columns. John stopped and stared at the domed atrium. Massive fossils for some terrifying creature lay on the ground, a towering shaggy beast standing opposite to its fallen companion. Several columns still proudly stood before elegant arches with exhibit titles etched on them, looming in front of collapsed gallery entrances. A huge skull façade dominated the far end of the concourse, serving as a gateway to an exhibit called _Underworld Journey_.

Garrett strode ahead of him and pulled the heavy door to the next hall open. “Let me go first. Stick behind me.”

The fact that they were trading who was being shielded only led to the thought that they were entering a very different world. John followed, finding the architecture on the other side of the door just as bleak and oppressive as the rest of the building. A truly horrifying sculpture of human figures trying to climb out of some abyss sat in the main foyer flanked by two pockmarked stone staircases. More of the same banners from the lobby were hung above, creating a portal of sorts to what looked like a city of the undead. Ghouls, more than John had ever seen in his life, were everywhere, bartering, arguing, hissing secrets in circles, and despondently sitting in quiet corners. The silent ones were in the worst physical shape, missing entire limbs or eyes or – in the case of one individual – a lower jaw. There were no humans to be found.

“Holy shit,” John spouted, frozen to the spot. “Did you bring me to Ghoultown U.S.A.?”

“It’s called Underworld,” Garrett corrected. He rolled his eyes a little. “Pretty apt title for a fabled city of rotters.”

This _city_ , if anyone dared to call it that, smelled dank and stale, reeking of time and death. _What a dump_ , John thought. He supposed that was the thing about fables – they ended up greatly exaggerated. “Some of the ghouls here,” John began, “they seem sorta…”

“FUBAR? Yeah, I noticed.” Garrett gave a grim smile. “Guess I’m lucky that my parts have held together as well as they have.”

They wandered a little, Garrett making small talk, John staring in wide-eyed wonder at the state of what seemed to be the pinnacle of ghoul civilization. It stuck him how out of place Garrett seemed here and found himself admiring his friend’s seemingly endless strength and resilience. John caught little of what his partner was discussing, although he was able to grasp one word: Doctor.

Further exploration led them upstairs. The door had barely opened to some seedy establishment when Garrett blurted, “Hey, I know that guy!” and shoved his oversized pack at John, leaving him in the entry as he crossed the room.

As John shifted his satchel around to add the pack to his burden, a well-dressed barkeep – a ghoul, of course – put his palms on the counter and ticked his fingertips in apparent anticipation. “Let me know what your preference is, smoothskin.” His smile looked like a knife wound. “I know your type on sight.”

With his long, lank hair and whip-thin build, John knew that he was fooling no one. This bold ghoul hadn’t been the first to assume that he dabbled in chems. It wasn’t a wrong assumption. Nevertheless, John shied away, seeking his place at his friend’s side.

He found Garrett talking to the largest ghoul John had ever seen. The height difference between the two of them was staggering. The guy was a giant, well-armored and armed. But although Garrett was talking, the other ghoul looked straight ahead, not acknowledging him in the slightest.

“Are you in trouble? My friend can pay,” Garrett was offering, gesturing at John. “He’s good for it.”

No answer. No reaction. Just a blank, disgruntled stare.

“Gimme a sign, buddy,” Garrett implored, trying hard.

“I have to atone,” the big ghoul breathed, his voice monotone and unmoved. His speech pattern was precise and measured, as if English was not his first language.

“Yeah. I know. Still…”

“Talk to Ahzrukhal.”

“Dude, what does that even mean?”

Nothing. Just that dead-eyed stare. It made the hair on John’s arms prickle.

Making an exasperated sound, Garrett turned to find John behind him. “I give up. Let’s go.”

John frowned, asking, “What’s his problem?” They headed back outside.

Safe on the other side of the doors, Garrett confided, “We were Desert Rangers together. He was a sniper, and sometimes I’d end up his partner. It’s been, like…jeez…fifty years?”

“Was he always a jerk?”

Garrett shrugged. “Yeah, but I get why. Remember when I said that the Rangers were partial to ghouls with military backgrounds?”

_Kind of_. “Yeah.”

“They also _weren’t_ partial to which side of the war you’d been on. He carried some kind of paper, stamped with the European Commonwealth seal. Saw it once when the higher-ups changed command. New commander had to sign it.”

John pondered that. Not for long, though. His knowledge of Pre-War history might have been extensive compared to most, but he had almost no information about European affairs. The paper, how Garret had described it, sounded like a type of visa. But as to why it was still being used after the bombs dropped and those sorts of things stopped mattering, John couldn’t begin to conjecture.

When he woke at the inn the next morning on a cot surrounded by medical partitions, Garrett was gone, the next bed empty. _Don’t freak out_ , a note pinned to his satchel read. _I’m not leaving the building._

“Your pal probably went downstairs,” the proprietor said when John asked if she had seen him. “First time through Underworld, most ghouls tend to get their brains examined. Sad day when somebody undergoes a surprise turn and we have to gun them down in the hallway.” 

As he munched on a box of Dandy Boy Apples, John wandered down a broad staircase and chastised himself. It was easy to forget that all ghouls walked around with what was akin to a terminal illness.With that outlook, Underworld was more like a hospice center than a community. Even the name of the infirmary, the Chop Shop, was wryly depressing.He took a seat beneath the garish statue serving as the city’s focal point. Notepad in his lap, he smoked and wrote as he waited for Garrett, wishing that he could be on the other side of the door but deeming it too intrusive to try.

When Garrett emerged, looking even smaller without his armor and somehow _more human_ , John greeted him with, “How’s the noodle?”

Looking anything but amused, Garrett snapped, “Did you follow me?”

“I asked around. Really – how’d it go?”

“Fine. Fantastic,” Garrett said, though the tone in his rough voice screamed sarcasm. He looked disgusted, kicking the toe of his boot into a crack in the tiles. “Doc said my brain looked damn fresh, like I’d just turned.”

John closed his notebook and slid it back into his satchel, confused by the ghoul’s reaction. “Then, I don’t…what’s the problem?”

Scanning the ceiling, as if looking for answers there, Garrett admitted, “Gonna be straight with ya – I wanted an estimate. A countdown. I think I’m tired of being alive. It’s not like – I’m not suicidal – but…I barely recognize anything now. Just more cities rising and falling, and everyone I meet dying or going feral.” His sigh was light, but his eyes never left the ceiling. “I’m in a bubble while everything else crumbles around me.”

It was still early in the day and, apart from a few passers-by, their conversation was going unnoticed. This was unprecedented. John had hardly ever caught Garrett in moments of doubt, and struggled to form sound advice. “You adapt,” he suggested. “You can’t chase ghosts forever or let them control you. If anybody can sit back and let the world spin around them, it’s you. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. In those two-hundred years, how many people have you saved? How much real good have you done?”

“Enough,” Garrett agreed. “But I can’t just live for everybody else. Maybe I’m selfish, but I’ve already finished this, seen it all. There’s nothing left for me.” He paused before offering the next piece of information. “The doc asked if I was willing to donate my brain to study. I’m considering it.”

John wanted to punch him right in the face. The cables. Something had bugged him about Garrett handing him the cables since they left _Wanderer_. “You fucker. You brought me here to ditch me.”

Garrett gave a guarded glance up at the landing above. He then pinned John with a pointed glare and walked past him. _Not here_ , that look warned. John followed the ghoul into the main atrium full of bones, dust and destruction.

With the two of them alone, Garrett turned and insisted, “I’m not the guy that changes everything. That’s supposed to be you.” With an aggravated snort, he gave John a sharp jab in the shoulder with his fingers. “When are you going to stop writing about doing something and _actually_ do something?”

Concern became self-defense. “That’s pretty fucking hard when you keep dragging me all over the Wastes,” John growled.

“I brought you to the Capital!” Garrett was yelling now, his teeth bared. The sound echoed within the chamber. “If there’s any place where you can make a difference, it’s here! There’s an army outside, and a radio, and people that have hope, and you’re this grand warrior of justice that does _nothing_!”

John felt he was at an impasse. He had no power, no way of implemented anything. He could observe and suggest, but suggest to whom? To his brother in his Emerald City? To the guy on the radio? To the decrepit ghouls patiently waiting to decompose on the other side of the door? John wasn’t ready. It might be a long time before he would be.

Picking at the wrinkled flesh between his fingers, Garrett avoided John’s eyes. “I wanted to be coming apart. I wanted it! I don’t want another fifty years or five-hundred years. I just…I want to be done. I want permission to be done. I thought…” He paused, the tendons in his face bouncing as he wrestled with his words. “I thought if I could just get you were you needed to be, I could be done.”

“Gare…,” John tied to console. This ghoul was the last important person in John’s rootless life. It was hard not to feel as if he had missed out on the chance to bond with Garrett, treating him like a packhorse and a servant. John had been too caught up in his own dramas to be a proper friend. He felt like a parasite, feeding off someone stronger while draining them of their life.

The thought of him voluntarily handing himself over for dissection and death was too morbid to stomach. Snapshots from a hundred different fireside conversions ran through his mind, of long miles spent on the back of _Wanderer_ , Garrett’s smug smile whenever he beat an enemy. A thousand missed opportunities at connecting with his only friend, a friend that felt alone and useless, sick to death over the monotony of his life.

Garrett’s colorless eyes skimmed the broken tiles of the foyer. “This isn’t about anything you did or failed to do. It isn’t about you at all.” His shoulders were bowed, the fight gone out of him. “Nothing changes. The world ended and everything stayed the same. I was supposed to serve for two years and then go home and lead a very boring life. Instead, I won the genetic lottery and get to watch everybody that I care about get old or die young. That’s not living. That’s a punishment. And I’m allowed to be done.”

Feeling as though he had one last chance to convince Garrett to keep fighting, to insist that he was someone significant, John took action. Beneath banners showcasing eternal death and torment, and in the shadow of that enormous shaggy beast replica, John put a guiding hand on the back of the ghoul’s neck and drew him into an emotionally-charged kiss.

Garrett jolted at the contact. His hands rose to grasp John’s shoulders…and firmly push him away. The skin between his brows were extra creased. He rebuked, “John…no. Um. I’m flattered? But –”

“Shit.” John gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, placing a hand over them for extra protection. He stepped back, putting distance between them. “I’m sorry. Shit. Shit, I’m sorry.” He was stunned at how fast he managed to wreck a partnership that had just barely survived for years.

“It’s okay.”

“No. No, it’s not okay. Shit. Fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Like a predator, he had taken advantage of someone in a vulnerable moment. John wasn’t even sure if he wanted his friend in an intimate manner. He was just desperate to create a connection and this was an angle he hadn’t tried yet. And John got lonely. Yes, if he admitted it, the road took a toll on what he was able to have in his life. Two weeks here, two days there – what could he build with anyone? No wonder he hadn’t taken the time to put his knowledge to use anywhere – he didn’t have a vested interest in saving any one group. The only person he was attached to was Garrett.

“John…it is okay,” Garrett assured, as John removed the hand from his face. “I mean, I get it. I’m, you know, sorry if I did anything that made you assume…But I don’t think about you that way. I just don’t.” Garrett didn’t look angry, just confused.

John felt like a heel for twisting the focus of this dialogue back to him. “I know you think you’ve missed out on something. I thought…maybe I could give that to you? Maybe we wouldn’t need anything else and we could just keep doing what we’re doing? And wouldn’t that be enough?”

Garrett shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. But it doesn’t really matter. That’s just not who I am.”

Shakily, John sat down on the steps leading back into Underworld **.** Nothing moved in this room, no breeze, no sign of life. It was as if the two of them were on a separate plane from the rest of existence **.** He chewed at his cheek before saying, “You put up with all my problems and I blow it to hell for the sake of pursuing something I don’t even know if I want.”

Garrett sat next to him but said nothing, rolling his thin lips, seeming perplexed but patient.

“Can we never bring this up again?” John begged, feeling the warmth of shame creep up his ears. “Can it go away?”

“If you want.”

“Fuck. I don’t know what I want!” he repeated in a shout. His hazel eyes fixed on the ghoul’s pale irises, heart still eager to convince Garrett to change his mind. “Don’t give up yet. Please. Just hang in there for a little longer. I don’t want you to go. I’m…not ready be alone.”

Garrett drew a deep breath and certainly looked upset while considering this. “Okay,” he finally said after a long internal debate. “A little longer.” He stood up and went back inside, leaving John to sit by himself.

John knew how much it costed Garrett to agree to that, knew that it wasn’t what he wanted. John was a coward and an idler, and could never be the kind of self-sacrificing man his friend was. He began to cry without knowing why, feeling that he’d lost something before it was even his. His life was full of nothing but questions, some he didn’t even know how to ask.

He stuffed his hand into a pocket. Luckily, he still had a syringe of Med-X to help numb his mortification.


	9. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode theme: [In the House, In a Heartbeat - John Murphy](https://youtu.be/ST2H8FWDvEA/)

GARRETT

Hamptown, NH

January 26th, 2273

Another year had sneaked by. But what was one more year to a ghoul?

Wendell Peterson had been voted out of office, and Aaron Kimball was now president. Civil unrest was at a slow, roiling boil. There were more scavengers to be wary of and more merchants taking to the road, resulting in a general destabilization of trade. Garrett and John talked about such matters when they spent late nights in taphouses, engaged in heated debates with locals, generating fodder for John’s essays.

Since Underworld, they had developed a formal sort of closeness, too polite and careful with words. They never discussed John’s advance again. Garrett did spot him taking a boy back to his room once, but had sent the fellow away after fifteen minutes, mumbling apologies. If he had done it again, it had been in secret. There had been a steady stream of women though. For both of them.

John’s hair was ludicrously long. Sometimes he tied it back, sometimes it hung free in dirty blonde waves. His speech pattern had taken a discernible downturn, mimicking the style of bottom-feeders and chem-heads. He had relapsed, and Garrett spent many nights forcing him to spend the evening in a medical tent rather than holed up in an inn by himself **.** John never fought him over it, and that itself was a vast improvement over before. John even carried Addictol when they could purchase it.

Garrett tried to keep in mind that John was only twenty years old, figuring his life out, making mistakes and growing. Knowing that his partner preferred beachfront cities, Garrett tried to stick to them, keeping to the coast in an effort to appease whatever internal bullshit John was dealing with.

The further north they traveled, the clearer the signal was for a classical music station, rare for Wasteland radio. Those calming tunes spilled out of every transmitter they passed, people hungry for anything else after a lifetime of the greatest hits from yesteryear.

In a circular, open-air marketplace in Hamptown, trade was conducted under the watchful eyes of local police armed with huge fishhooks and harpoons, as bullets could fly too wildly, causing panic and undue injury. John was…somewhere, as Garrett put down funds to purchase a new missile launcher. Buying one of those was always a gamble; you couldn’t test them in the markets and had to rely on the vendor’s less-than-reliable word that it was fully operational.

Transaction complete, he sat at a food stall, launcher on his back, where he chewed Iguana and downed a flat Nuka. He waited for nearly a half an hour, clinking the now-empty bottle of cola against his teeth. One day, he wouldn’t reunite with John at all – he would have gotten himself killed over some chem dispute or start an argument over ethics with the wrong person and his body would never be found.

With a weary sigh, Garrett stood, ready to make the rounds. _Hey, have you seen my friend - long hair, big mouth, possibly tripping so hard that his words are slurred?_

Sooner than he had expected, “Gare! Hey, Gare!” caught his attention. There John was, across the market, seeming surprisingly sober, waving his arms and looking ecstatic. “Look what I found!” he called.

Suspicious, Garrett approached the general goods stall – _GENRAL GOUDS_ , it read – and wondered what could cause his friend’s face to light up like it was Christmas Morning. He found John with his arm slung around something strange, his eyes bright, waiting for Garrett’s enthusiasm to match his.

Due to frequently conversing with other ghouls, Garrett was used to some pretty ghastly sights, but John had found something that made his jaw drop. At first glance, it looked like a mannequin with all the plastic plating pried off. A deep crack fractured a portion of the manufactured skull, creating a _W_ pattern over one temple, almost like a compass marker. The limbs were partially encased in bone-colored enamel, metallic guts twisting in an abdominal cavity that looked all too similar to human viscera. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a rusted skeleton. But no.

A robot. A delicately built, beat-to-shit robot, more fit to stand in some Smithsonian museum than a dystopian marketplace in New Hampshire being sold by an unkept woman wearing a pasta strainer as a hat.

John kept standing there with that ridiculous, wide smile, clearly waiting for Garrett to jump for joy and applaud his find. “What the fuck?” was all that Garrett gave him.

The robot’s lidless eyes rotated towards Garrett, whirring in their sockets. “Hello,” it spoke in an unsettlingly calm tone. The thing didn’t have a jaw – its voice came from a speaker inside of its head.

“It’s a robot!” John spouted happily.

Garrett gave a short laugh, glad to see his friend back in good spirits. “More like the used guts of a robot.”

“Vendor was gonna turn it into scrap. I bought us a sentry for seventy-five caps! It won’t sleep, eat, or steal our shit!”

“Are you my new master?” the robot inquired. It cocked its head at John. “Continuously changing hands is not in the best interest of this unit.”

“And it can talk!” John explained, his elation never wavering, arm still draped over the robot’s shoulders. “He’s like a gangly, metal guard dog…that talks!”

Garrett’s smile melted, and his hand fell to his holstered sidearm. _It understands that its being sold, and it doesn’t like that. Crap._ RobCo Industries had been notorious for building malfunctioning robots. Seeing a functional robot in the Wastes was often cause to run. The slightest default in programming led to deadly rampages that wouldn’t stop until the automaton had been blown to bits. He could only imagine how this murder machine had managed to survive over the millennia.

“It’s not a pet, John,” he warned, fingers brushing the grip of his handgun. “That thing isn’t alive. It was probably designed to wash floors. When it decides to kill us, it won’t give any warning.”

“Well, that’s rude,” John grumbled as his delight faded. “Thought you’d be happy I found somebody to help us. No more sleeping in shifts when we’re on the road.”

“That thing isn’t a person.”

John mirth was traded for a serious glower. He removed his arm from around the robot. “There’re a hell of a lot of people that would say the same about you.”

Bristling, Garrett was momentarily struck dumb. When he finally spoke, he spouted, “There’s a shitton of difference between being a ghoul and being a toaster. It’s just a thing. It’s not even a _he_.”

“This unit has been programmed to default to a male voice,” the machine chimed in, oblivious to their dispute. “It can be altered, if you wish.”

“What? Really?” John asked, his attention drawn back to it for a moment. “Uh…no. It’s fine like it is.”

“Where did you get it?” Garrett questioned the vendor, who was busy stacking packaged food on a shelf, the labels facing out. She shrugged, the strainer she wore tilting as she did so, likely protecting her distributors.

John tried his hand, asking the robot directly, “Where you from, pal?”

“Insufficient clearance,” the robot’s voicebox chirped. Although it didn’t move at all, its eyeballs swiveled between Garrett and John, as if attempting to size them up.

John amended his question. “If I take you with me, are you gonna murder us?”

Seconds ticked by while the thing considered an answer. “This unit has been programmed for apprehension and reconnaissance, not assassination.” 

“So that’s a _no_ on the murder?”

“Affirmative.”

“What happened to your dome?” John tapped his temple, mirroring where the crack in the robot’s head was.  

“Cranial trauma. Relay sensors disabled.”

“Wait,” Garrett objected. _Was John high? Probably._ That would explain the reckless euphoria. “John, I don’t like this. Taking a broken robot out on the road? And _Wanderer_ ’s not exactly built for three.”

John dismissed Garrett’s concerns with the wave of his hand. “Don’t be such a xeno. It’ll be fine. Worst case scenario, we’ll blow it apart if it tries anything. Look at it – breathe on it too hard and it’ll shatter.” He looked away, avoiding Garrett’s gaze. “And you wouldn’t have to watch me all the time. You could do your own thing sometimes.”

_Ah_. So that’s what this was – an attempt to placate Garrett, to spare him from the never-ending chore of monitoring John’s behavior, to pass the obligation off to something that wouldn’t care or be concerned or tire of the responsibility. Not that Garrett minded, as sticking to his friend’s side was his only duty, but he did appreciate that John wanted to grant him more freedom.

“Okay,” Garrett agreed, drawing the word out in a wary tone. “But it’s your toaster. I’m not picking up after it.”

John chuckled. “You’ll change your tune.” He held his arms out, display-style, at the robot. “Look at it! It’s so cool! I’m gonna name it West, ‘cause of the crazy mark on its head,” he announced, poking a finger at the compass-like crack on the robot’s right temple.

“This unit has a designated seventeen-digit serial number.”

“I like _West_ better,” John maintained with an assured grin.

Packs full of fresh supplies and with their new find in tow, Garrett and John left the confines of the town. A quaint seaside boulevard linked the settlement to the roadway that would lead them back to _Wanderer_ ’s hidden location. The beach spread out in a lengthy stretch on one side of the rotted, wooded avenue; crumbled buildings with faded, pastel colored paint decorated the opposite side. A healthy breeze blew in from the ocean, making John’s loose hair flutter. The metal of West’s delicate toes clicked softly against the wooden planks, almost sounding as if they had a dog in their party. It stood almost as tall as John, which did little for Garrett’s self-esteem, making him the shortest of the trio.

On a relaxingly calm day like today, guards tended to drop. Garrett countered the tranquility by keeping one hand on his sidearm and the other on the shoulder strap of his missile launcher. His vigilance was rewarded when the humped bodies of mirelurk carcasses began to appear along the shoreside. The carapaces were blackened, the stench of cooked meat becoming heavier the further they walked. He stiffened, realizing that the crustaceans had been burned, not shot by either ballistic nor energy weapons. Smoke still rose from the bodies.

Without a word, he grasped John by the back of his pack and pulled him off the boulevard, towing him towards one of the eroding beach homes. John grabbed West and they scuttled to shelter in a chain, climbing the stairs inside to gain a decent vantage point. The house had neat white trim, peeling pink paint and floral wallpaper that had been mostly eaten through by salt and time. The roof had partly collapsed, leaving one of the attic walls open and facing the beach. As he and John stooped to peer out of the hole, Garrett plucked his binoculars from his pack.

Nearly a hundred yards away on the beach, an improvised check-point was perched atop a dune. Tall metal barriers were arranged in a semi-circle, with a massive, enclosed steel cargo container making up part of the wall. A satellite dish fed cables down to an officer’s station with a terminal and a radio, where a man in a brown uniform sat with a scabbard on his back. Patrolling the perimeter at a leisurely pace was a second soldier encased in heavy, insectoid armor, carrying a flamethrower, the suspect of the cooked mirelurks. The Enclave standard hung on a pole, rippling in the wind. The camp stood between them and the dock where they had stored _Wanderer._

He handed the binoculars to John. “Fantastic,” John grumbled, squinting through the lenses. “We taking the long way around through the ‘burbs?”

Garrett shook his head. “Not if there are additional command posts.” _Goddamn_. Highly hostile, the Enclave were well mobilized in a way that the Brotherhood or NCR could barely dream of. An attack on one mobile base could result in the entire local regiment converging on your location, bringing squad after squad of soldiers packed into vertibirds.

“Signal found,” West announced. He stood very still and straight in a corner of the attic, a gawky figure with glowing yellow eyes. “Do you wish to listen?”

“Uh, sure.” Garrett had entirely forgotten about the robot.

Form the speakers in West’s head, an unknown voice spewed a command report. “ _Sources confirm that the alien automaton was sighted in Hamptown. Whereabouts within the Commonwealth are currently unknown_. _Will relay additional information as it arrives._ ”

Garrett stifled an impressed chuckle – the robot had transmitted a live feed direct from the Enclave officer down on the beach.

“ _Alien_?” John repeated. “As in _alien_ alien?”

“Not that kind. It just means foreign or unknown.” _Maybe. Hopefully_. Garrett gave West a scrutinizing glance. “Sounds like they’re searching for your toaster.”

West cocked his head, eyeballs fixed on vacant air. “Three heat signatures coming from the mobile location – two average, one large.”

Garrett nodded. He must have missed spotting a second officer. “Okay. Three soldiers. We can handle that. Just have to strike before they can send for reinforcements.”

“See?” John smiled and jerked a thumb at the robot. “He’s useful after all.”

“Sure.” Garrett didn’t even try to keep the mockery out of his tone. “I take it all back. What could go wrong?”

He pulled spare clips from his belongings and stowed them in easy-to-reach pockets, wishing for firepower somewhere between his handgun or the launcher. A few grenades were at the bottom of his pack, but that was the end of his arsenal. Everything else was stored with _Wanderer_ – it was never a good idea to walk into a town with every gun you owned hanging from your person. He knocked a single missile into the launcher’s tube.

John readied his own weapon. He had traded up from his standard shotgun to a combat variant with a drum magazine that could pump out more shells without wasting time reloading. He still couldn’t hit the broad side of a Brahmin, but it was enough to disorient his attacker and make them dive for cover, giving Garrett time to intervene and end things. And John had the knife – he was brutal with that thing. He stood and nodded to Garrett. “Ready to roll?”

“As if there’s a choice.” Garrett rose and made certain that the launcher was secure at his back. He jabbed a finger at the robot. “Don’t do anything. Just stay put.”

They left their packs in the shorehouse attic with the machine and plodded down the stairs. Garrett paused in the doorway, leaning out onto the front porch. “I’ll take the heavy. Think you can get the officer before he can radio out?” That was all they needed – a vertibird to come dropping out of the sky. Nothing could be worse than that surprise.

John holstered the shotgun. “Looks like I’m going stealth. Well…best I can on a sunny day with no cover.”

“Trust me –” Garrett rolled two pulse grenades in his hand “ – I’ll make more than enough noise.”

Setting out with their backs to the string of sea-rotted houses, they kept low, Garrett in front, John at the rear. They split at Garrett’s hand signal. John slunk towards the metal barricade as Garrett crept along the boardwalk, waiting for the armored heavy to make another pass around as it searched for more mirelurks. Garrett held a palm up, hoping that John was watching. _Wait_ , the signal read. _Let me take the first strike._

The heavy emerged, striding around the base of the sand dune, a cumbersome flamer occupying both hands. Garrett’s hand dropped to pull the pin on a pulse grenade. He lobbed it overhead, sending it arcing across the sky. It detonated, a burst of blue electricity jolting outwards from the heavy’s location, smoke and sand rising the choke the air. Before the sky could clear, he tossed a second grenade, hoping to disable the suit and crack it open, exposing the person underneath.

A blur went by on Garrett’s periphery. He spared a fraction of a second to watch John charge up and throw himself at the officer. The sword in the Enclave soldier’s scabbard went flying as both men went into a tumble over the side of the dune.

Garrett pulled his sidearm and rushed the heavy. Sparks were spitting from the joints of its armor, the flamer lost during the explosions. Familiar with power armor – Garrett had worn it throughout most of his pre-war service – he fired specific shots under the armpit and at the seam between the thigh guard and the crotch. The heavy shrieked and stumbled, taking a knee in the sand. Throwing himself on top of the soldier, Garrett scrambled to get a one-handed grip on the fusion core at the back of the armor and yank it free. He pried it out and fired a final shot into the heavy’s side. It slumped in its steel coffin.

One down, Garrett hopped to his feet and franticly searched for the third soldier. An ominous banging sound began to resonate. The location of the noise was difficult to pinpoint in the open expanse of the beach.

Hoping to gain a better vantage point, Garrett whirled and charged up to the top of the dune. That goddamn robot was there, holding the officer’s sword – a refined blade the size and shape of a katana – in its slight hands and looking over the side of the dune, towards the ocean. “I told you to stay put!” Garrett snarled at the robot. Panting, Garrett shoved the fusion core in a pocket and followed the robot’s line of sight to where John and the officer wrestled at the shoreline. They grappled, each trying to drown the other.

“Ownership of this unit belongs to the other member of your party. Accepting commands from a secondary source were not implied.”

In other words, _Fuck yourself, dude_. _I don’t have to listen to you._ Garrett was going to have strong words with John about his pet. Between that insistent thumping sound and having no idea where the third unit was, he felt fit to toss the bot into the ocean and leave it there.

More banging, each pound more forceful than the last.

“Do you know how to use that?” Garrett asked, gesturing with his gun at the sword in the robot’s hands.

West looked down at it, studying the weapon. “Scanning database.” A long string of electronic chatter rose from his memory banks. His eyes rotated upwards to meet Garrett’s. “Yes.” Taking the sword in one hand, he sliced it across the air with a _shink_ sound. As a surprise feature, waves of white electrical charges erupted from the hilt to dance up and down the blade.

“Well,” Garrett muttered, “okay then.” _Where was the third Enclave unit? When is John going to be done drowning that guy?_ It felt almost comical to have only the robot as backup.

Another bang, and Garrett spotted the steel door of the cargo container bend outwards. A final blow sent the door flying open. An epic crown of horns came into view as a deathclaw took thundering steps out of the container, its thick hide the same color as the sandy beach. A type of metal helmet wove around its horns, partially shielding its head.

He found the third member of the Enclave squadron.

The Enclave utilizing deathclaws as attack animals in the field – he’d heard rumors of such a thing but had never once believed that was possible. Had he still been with the Rangers, we would have lost a few bets.

Garrett lost only a moment to astonishment before raising his handgun – a pitiful instrument against the predator – and firing a string of rounds at the creature’s beady eyes. Aim compromised by shock, he missed, the bullets pinging off the side of its headpiece.

The deathclaw recognized an attack and roared, spittle spraying from its maw. Free of its confinement, it leapt at the ghoul, coming down on powerful hind legs. The tremor of its impact knocked Garrett on his backside. Leathery skin walled him in on all sides; he could see nothing else. He wasn’t immediately concerned with the thing’s mouth; he was likely to be ripped to shreds by its claws or gored by its horns long before it decided to eat him.

The beast dug into the dune with outstretched fingers, claws plunging through the sand and raking through it, one of its dewclaws catching Garrett in the chest, slicing a gash into both his armor and his desiccated flesh. He yelled out as he was hauled between the beast’s legs, scooped up and sent tumbling under its tail.

He landed, coming to a stop in front of the container. The robot was still standing by the officer’s desk, as if nothing had happened. The deathclaw’s stunted snout sniffed at the ground, nudging through the sand, looking for Garrett. It didn’t seem to smell the robot or register it as a threat.

“I provided adequate warning,” West called, almost chastising.

“You said _large_ , not _goddamn deathclaw_!” Garrett yelped, still clutching the handgun. _Click click._ He jiggled the slide. No good. It had jammed, damaged from the toss or filled with sand.

Sensing that it had lost its prey, the deathclaw stamped back around. Garrett rolled down the dune to escape it. By the grace of God, the launcher was still on his back. He swung it over to grasp it. Sand poured from the barrel as hauled it over his shoulder.

The deathclaw had found Garrett. It charged at him, toes leaving deep, bird-like impressions in the sand. As it roared again, the wide mouth gave Garrett a target. Fire belched from the barrel of the launcher as the missile took flight, recoil hitting Garrett hard in the shoulder. The flash startled the deathclaw; it jerked and came to a stop, turning its head and causing the missile to hit it in shoulder instead of the face.

Garrett cursed and let the launcher roll from his grasp. He did what any intelligent Wastelander would do in his situation – he ran like hell, drawing it towards the boardwalk and away from John at the water’s edge.

The deathclaw gave an odd sort of snort, is if annoyed. Still fleeing, Garrett granted himself a cautious glance over his shoulder. He stumbled to a halt, nearly falling to his knees. The deathclaw hadn’t pursued him. It remained near to the camp enclosure, whirling in a circle, trying to snap at something on its back. Sand flew in all directions as it kicked its feet in frustration. Barely visible against the sandy beach, the color of the deathclaw’s hide and the glare of the sun, the robot clung to the deathclaw’s back, pressed low, limbs askew, a spider attached to a wall of leathery flesh. He dodged blows as the deathclaw tried to dislodge him with swipes of its claws.

West still had the sword, bluish currents emitting from the blade as he fought to hang on. In a surge, West leaned forward. The sword dipped, its blade landing on the metal headpiece the deathclaw wore. Sparks exploded in a cascade of embers. The beast gave a shuddery roar as it jerked. It fell to its knees before slumping into a heap, thin trails of smoke emitting from its headgear.

West toppled sprightly off of it, landing softly in the sand. The robot looked at Garrett as the dying deathclaw twitched. “You seemed to require assistance,” it told him.

Garrett became aware that his mouth was open. He puffed, adrenaline starting to fade. He shuffled back to approach West, his chest burning where the beast had clawed him. He pressed one hand to the wound, the other reached up to rub where the launcher had kicked back at him.

“You’ve been damaged,” West greeted him.

“I’d noticed,” Garrett grumbled. He kicked the deathclaw in the head. Granules of sand were glued to its open eyes. Dead as the hopes and dreams of pre-war America.

Garrett still wheezed in pain as he and West crested the dune, heading back to the officer’s station. They found John there, soaked in seawater, propping the subdued officer back in his chair. “Did I miss something awesome?” John asked as he shook wet hair from his face.

Hissing through his teeth, Garrett patted through the pharmacy in John’s pockets. He emerged with two stimpaks and jammed one needle into his chest, another into his shoulder. A syringe of Med-X, he kept for later. “About the robot,” he gasped. “We’re keeping him.”

“Cool.”

Garrett watched as John pulled the officer’s combat knife from its holder. He positioned the man’s hand on the armrest of the chair. In a solid, confident stroke, he plunged the knife through the man’s hand, pinning it to the chair. The officer came to, screaming. To Garrett’s shock, John repeated the procedure on the other hand with his own knife.

Over the panicked shrieking of the officer, John said, “Gare, gimme your knife.”

“I…think you’ve got enough, buddy.”

“Just need one more.”

Garrett hesitated, apprehensive, but slid his knife free and surrendered it.

John leaned over the chair, a raptor waiting for carrion, tapping the razor-sharp tip of Garrett’s blade against the pad of his own finger. “My toaster – why are you after it?” he questioned the officer.

“Your what?”

John carved a single shallow cut into the officer’s cheek. The wound bloomed red. “My robot! Why? What is it?”

The officer didn’t answer. Another slice to make the man scream. And another.

Garrett squirmed, but held his tongue in intrigue, rubbing his sore shoulder. This wasn’t the first torture had sat through, but this dark shade of John was entirely new, the likes of which had only been hinted at during chem use.

“It’s not a robot!” the officer shouted, surrendering to John’s torture.

“Sure looks like a damn robot,” John argued, standing by with the knife.

“It’s a synth!”

“Brother, I don’t know what that means.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” His wild eyes locked onto Garrett before ruefully drilling hate into John. “You people are savages – keeping the company of corpses, shooting each other in the streets and dying from simple diseases. You think the Enclave is evil, that we want to do is destroy you. But, there’s something worse out there. That _thing_ ,” he spat at West, “is part of the first wave of an assault that will kill everyone. It isn’t ours and it isn’t the Brotherhood’s. There’s something bigger out there that will crush all of us.” The man was desperate now, windless as he tried to reason with John. “If the Enclave claims your synth, we can take it apart. We might be able to track where it originated from. We can stop the fight before it begins, we can –”

“No, thanks.” John yanked the officer’s knife out of his hand, freeing the appendage. He then drove it through the officer’s heart. “Nobody takes what’s mine.”

The man choked and sputtered, dying at his reporting station, still in his seat.

John flipped Garrett’s knife back to him. He pried his own out of the officer’s other hand and wiped it clean on the man’s toffee-colored uniform, the front slowly staining red.

“A little hasty there, don’t you think?” Garrett asked. Although he didn’t feel squeamish, he did feel unsettled. John had struck him as easy-going before now.

“Did it hurt you?” John probed. “The robo – synth – did it hurt you?”

They both glanced at West. He was carefully sliding the sword back into its scabbard with an almost elegant grace. 

“No,” Garrett said. “It saved me. There was a...” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, vaguely in the direction of the dead deathclaw. “Nevermind. Long story.”

“Then whatever’s going on behind the scenes, it ain’t my problem,” John declared. “I’ll let the big boys – the Brotherhood and the Enclave – play their war, and I’ll keep out of it.”

“Then it’s time to kiss big cities goodbye,” Garrett advised, taking John’s lead and cleaning his blade on the officer’s pants. “No more cushy rooms, separate accommodations or stocked bars. You keep this thing and we’ll always be on the run.”

John shrugged. “I can live with that.”

Adding the robot to their midst – this adventure would definitely be new, perhaps a solution to Garrett’s long-standing exhaustion of living in the Wastes. He felt sated and astonishingly eager to face the future.

They quickly reclaimed their belongings and vacated the beach. Garrett kept his ears peeled for the steady thrum of veribird blades the entire time. After racing down the dock and picking the lock to the boathouse, John took to the task of securing their packs while Garrett rewired _Wanderer_ ’s engine. Final plug in place, the ghoul raced around to the back to the vehicle and opened one of the holds. He began tossing items at John for him to store elsewhere. “Hey,” Garrett called to West, who stood staring at the enormous motorcycle in fascination. “How small can you fold yourself?”

“To an impressive extent, I’m sure.”

“Good.” Garrett nodded at the empty compartment. “Get in.”


	10. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode theme: [Imagine Dragons - Believer - Electric Guitar Cover by Kfir Ochaion](https://youtu.be/cVc2_Zo7pdA/)

WEST

Memory Log Entry #613

“Do you wanna go back where you came from?” my master asks me after four-hundred and two days of travel. Time is an irrelevant concept to a machine. I have been well-constructed, and will continue to operate until my processor is destroyed. Nonetheless, I have been instructed to chart events.

“This unit does not understand the question.”

“I statements, West.”

My master wishes for my speech pattern to mimic that of humans. This conflicts with prior programming. And yet not doing so would conflict with the direct protocol of following orders, either implied or explicit. This causes some feedback within my processor.

I try again. “I do not understand the question.”

“Home,” he repeats. “Do you want to go home?”

Do I want to return to the Institute?

Do I _want_?

This unit has not been given the capacity for wanting.

The subtext is that my master wishes to know if I am unhappy. Happiness is a superfluous sensation, one not meant my generation of model. It is difficult to convey this.

“No,” I answer. In human terms, this would be considered a cowardly response.

My master – John – is the most unconventional man that I have encountered. Both his behavior and appearance contrast with what I equate to be normal standards – his hair is long enough to be considered feminine, he does not censor commentary about others, and indulges in pharmaceuticals without discretion. He is the one that offers me guidance and protection. I am his property.

It is unclear whether Garrett Grant is his property as well. My master offers him payment, but the two of them share a platonic closeness that is rather…complex. They fight and laugh and communicate with a subtle series of nudges and gestures, sometimes respectful, sometimes not. I have seen this type of behavior in young siblings who had yet to be indoctrinated onto a career path.

The burned man still calls me toaster. It is not meant with malice, but has become a type of affectionate term he uses when speaking to me.

He calls my master many names, not all of which are affectionate.

_Ghoul_ is what Garrett’s race is called. This title is incorrect. _Human, Irradiated Variant_ would be more apt, as he and my master share the same physiology. Given what limited information I have pertinent to popular pre-war culture, I surmise the label _ghoul_ is a witticism based on appearance as I’ve been told that his physical aesthetics are considered disgusting. Such opinions are beyond my level of comprehension.

I see little of this world in the daylight, most hours spent curled within a plastic bin strapped to the back of the motorcycle with the jostle of uneven roadway for companionship. This is for my well-being, I am aware. With my relay sensor incapacitated, I am marooned here on the surface. There are those who wish to capture and disable me. My master prevents this from occurring.

My duties are to watch over the vehicle in times when my companions are forced to leave it, and to guard them while they sleep. While they lay on bedrolls around a low fire, I patrol, walking in wide circles until they wake. I have been allowed to keep the electrified sword, a fine weapon worthy of any courser.

“When are we swinging north?” Garrett asks my master on a spring morning, sitting by the fire, his mouth mostly full of roach steak. Behind him, the morning sunlight makes the metal on _Wanderer_ gleam. “To visit your…Emerald City, or whatever it’s called.”

Opposite the low flames, my master stills, his spoon stuck in a can of beans. “Why would I go to Diamond City?”

Shrugging, Garrett focuses on his meal, slicing another bite for himself. “To go through all the crap you store there. You send heaps of papers out on every caravan we pass.” He is careful to not look directly at my master when he suggests, “Don’t you think it’s time you do something with everything you write? You keep like…an index, right?”

The lack of an answer implies _no_.

“Oh, jeez, John. C’mon.”

My master sets his beans aside. “Don’t really remember what I’ve written. You know I’m high for most of it.”

They are two statues; Garrett has frozen as well, red-tinged eyes boring into my master’s face. “What in the blazing fuck?” The ghoul stands, slowly unfurling with tightly controlled movement. “Dude, have you been jerking me around for _years_? Everything we do is for you and your goddamned writing.” Regardless of his short stature, he towers over my master. I debate reaching for my sword.

I have seen my master’s compositions. They contain relevant data on surface conditions and would be considered prized finds were I able to surrender them to Doctor Zimmer. I observe enough to know how important they are to my master. Given his lax conduct, it is not unexpected that items may have been misplaced or mishandled.

“No, it…it ain’t that bad,” my master insists. “Yeah, I got sloppy. But everything is in Diamond City. It is. I’m just…I’m not ready –”

“Shut up. You’re never fucking ready. Not to be on your own, not to let me leave, not to finish what you’ve started, none of it.”

Trained to remain silent when humans argue, I begin a cleanup of the camp site, rolling sleeping bags outside the line of fire. Several of my brethren have been shattered for standing too close to a quarrel. This argument is old, revisited every few months without a solution. A clash of words and then back to normal. My master is quite good at bargaining.

Standing to face his opponent, my master claims, “My pacing ain’t your problem. I’ll get to my shit when I get to it. Don’t push me.”

“Or what – you’ll beg for more time? You’re gonna die and still not be done.” Garrett is unafraid. My master is no physical match for him. “There was supposed to be a point, a reason to do something important. I –” a low, incredulous laugh “– I thought you had a plan.”

“I do –”

“For what? Spending the next twenty years seeing the sights? Getting so hopped up that you don’t even remember what you’ve done?” Garrett stalks back and forth, bringing hands to his head as my master tries to not look ashamed. I look away before I am caught staring to pull clothes from the makeshift washline, folding them with crisp edges. The items go into their designated packs.  

“It’s not for nothing,” my master argues. “I will go up to Diamond City. I promise. Just…not yet.”

“ _Not yet_ ,” Garrett repeats as if the words taste foul. He leaves the circle of the small campsite, stalking over to his motorbike. Ripping items from their rigging, he tosses bag after bag onto the ground. “Can’t let me go.” Toss. My master’s provision pack. “Can’t quit the chems.” Toss. My master’s gun duffle. “Can’t keep it together long enough to even matter that you’re alive.” A rather vehement toss. A small bag containing narcotics spills open, bottles of pills rolling in the dirt. “Your friends from Liberty Isle would be so proud.”  

Although I don’t understand this reference, the words are sharpened to a fine point. My master jolts, pierced by them. His expression twists into a caustic sneer. “So, what? You gonna leave me here? Strand me?”

“You’ve got all the caps and all the answers.” Snatching up his campsite items, Garrett loads them into the motorcycle’s saddlebags. “Figure it out for yourself.” He hauls himself up onto the seat and secures his helmet. “Fix your shit, John. I’ll be in Underworld with the rest of the losers. For as long as I can stand it, anyway.”  

A steady roar builds in the vehicle’s motor as it turns over. The rear turbine glows red as Garrett nudges the kickstand back with his boot. Lurching into motion, _Wanderer_ shot forward, swerving around a ditch before climbing onto a nearby road. And then he was gone, taking their transport with him.

I turn to fully face my master. He is quietly fuming, fists clenched by his thighs. I take my chances. “You should go after him.”

“Why?” he growls. “‘Cause he’s right – I’m a fuckin’ failure?”

“Because he is essential. We are stronger as an ensemble.” Of the three of us, the ghoul is obviously the best suited for surface combat. It is unlikely that my master and I will survive long without him. And I have lost my hiding space.

A muffled explosion draws our attention. It is followed by a _screee_ and a crash that echoes across the dull landscape.

We say nothing. My master dives to collect the bags discarded from the motorcycle. I notice that he takes an extra few seconds to thrust bottles back into the narcotic bag. The provision pack is shoved at me. He takes off, scrambling up to the road. “C’mon!” he shouts at me. I have little choice but to follow.

My legs are not meant for running; the servos protest, pushed to their limit. As we dash in the direction Garrett headed, the scenery shifts from barren hills to flat suburbia, traffic circles branching off from the main road on either side. We run block by block, approaching a suburb where only the pavement remains. All houses have been reduced to rubble, their driveways leading nowhere, swimming pool pits behind empty foundations. Cars, burned out and flat-tired, are still parked at curbs. Random stop signs and mailboxes stand in defiance of atomic annihilation. Once-proud trees are hollow stumps, clawing at the sky with jagged bark **.**

Movement ahead. My master knocks into me, driving us both behind one of the charred cars. On our bellies, we peer out from beneath the undercarriage.

I see now that there are people here, cresting from nowhere as if erupting from the earth itself. Not accurate. They are coming from platforms that lift tent cities out of the empty pools. Earth-toned forms stumble across the road, savage and wild with matted hair and tattered clothing, throwing themselves at a heap of metal in the road – _Wanderer_ – ripping into it for parts, stripping the accessories, breaking the pieces down into bare components. A scorched dent in the motorcycle’s chassis is visible and then gone again, blocked by bodies. A targeted rocket strike. Someone is a good shot.

“No!”

The voice is a familiar gravelly rasp.

“Stop!”

My master taps me. We rise and press forward, darting from car to car, cover to cover. Our packs slip from our shoulders. He readies his shotgun. I pull my sword.

On the sidewalk, steps away from the horde disassembling _Wanderer_ , two large men hold a shorter, struggling figure in a flight helmet with a shattered visor by the arms. Garrett. He makes ineffective lunges towards his vehicle.  

“Ours now,” one of the men snaps. “Not for you. All ours.”

Additional people – it is impossible to ascertain gender due to the level of filth that cakes them – make their way to Garrett and relieve him of his armor piece by piece. His helmet is stolen away from him, revealing what he is. The captors fall back in a hasty retreat. 

“A rotten one!” one of the men alerts his brethren.

Bits of _Wanderer_ – steel bars and chain – become weapons as the horde swarms. Garrett is surrounded, defenseless, clad only in drab green pants and a torn shirt. His raised hands have little effect in calming frayed nerves.

A total of eighteen adversaries stand between us and Garrett. These people are obviously scavengers, not fighters. A variety of vehicles give cover on either side of the street. The group has their backs to me. Given the element of surprise, our losses may be negligible.

“Head shot,” someone commands. The slide and clack of a firearm being loaded. 

I do not wait for orders. My sword crackles, bathed in blue light as I engage the electrical current. I slide out of safety and stride towards them. A few at the rear turn too late. With quick chops, I cleave them in half. Cauterized pieces tumble to the ground as my attack ends in a defensive stance. The herd turns.

“Whoever’s got a damned gun had better drop it!” my master shouts.

No one moves, either in shock or defiance. A smear of blood sizzles on my unturned blade.

My master discharges his shotgun into the air. He pumps the next round into the chamber. “The next blast goes through five of you at once!”

Perhaps my master is too kind to offer a warning. The first bullet strikes my hydraulic abdomen, knocking a hole in my coolant tank. A second shot pings off the hilt of my sword, nearly knocking it from my grasp. 

Shotgun pellets fly wide, tearing into the crowd, my master keeping his word. I charge those closest to me, swinging and slicing. The screeching of the mob fills my audio receivers, threatening to transpose sound into static.

For several minutes I am within a tempest of action, bringing death beside my master. Too few bullets fly. They make clumsy attempts to kill us, coming in too close to try and beat us with steel rods and heavy chain. I fall into an easy pattern of dismemberment. Thump. A dropped limb. Thump. A dropped body.

The onslaught ends quickly. Bodies in dirty rags lay in the street, some crumpled into gutters. My scanners pan for hidden threats, finding none. I power down my sword.

Garrett is on the ground, tussling with the last man, thick fingers around his neck, lips pulled back in a rictus. He is squeezing while the man kicks. Seconds tick by, and the man ceases thrashing.

My master shoulders his shotgun and offers Garrett a hand, pulling him to his feet. “As far as dramatic exits go, I’ll give you seven points.”

Whistling, Garrett shakes his head. “Harsh. I guess my dismount was rough.” He picks up his helmet, inspects it and tosses it aside. Rather begin to retrieve his armor – now scattered amongst the bodies – he sits down on the curb, staring at the remnants of _Wanderer_ with a hand cupping his face. “Aw, man…” he breathes.

While the initial crash had left most of _Wanderer_ intact, the scavengers had been quick to pry the engine apart and separate the turbine from the framework, searching for precious bits of scrap. It is odd to watch a person grieve for their machine.

“Can you rebuild it?” my master asks.

“Sure. Gimme forty years. And a pre-war automotive specialist.” Garrett sighs. “I kept it going. That’s my skill limit.”

“So…looks like we’re walking from here on out?”

“Yup.”

“Well,” my master huffs, “that sucks.”

An alarm rings, faint within my cranium. It seems oddly loud in the silence. Both Garrett and my master look at me. “Jeez! West, are you okay?” my master asks, widening eyes raking over me.

I look down. Courtesy of the gunshot, coolant is dripping from my innards, droplets pattering onto the ground. There is time before this injury begins to slow me. “This unit is damaged.”

“ _I_. I statements, West.”

“I. I am damaged.”

Standing, Garrett frowns. “That looks like shit. How can you stand there so calmly?”

“My model does not have pain receptors installed. Standard restoration procedures will suffice to bring this unit… _me_ …back to full operational capabilities.”

“Wait…you don’t feel pain?” They both exchange a glance.

They are unnerved by this information. This is confusing. I do not have all the data necessary to understand this dilemma. “Early model synths are not constructed to mirror human discomforts.” My master’s blonde eyebrows lower, his mouth tightening into a bloodless line. The robotic nature of my dialogue choices seems to upset him. It is my duty to please. “I could…try and scream if that would be a more acceptable human reaction to injury.”

My master waves the idea away. “No. I’m good."

Garrett rolls duct tape around my abdomen like a bandage, sealing the remaining coolant inside of my system, promising to find a place where I can be properly repaired. We gather all that we can carry from _Wanderer_ , stuffing packs to bursting, discarding beloved weapons and items too cumbersome to carry. My pack is filled to exactly the amount I can manage; any additional weight would cripple me.  

After recovering his armor, Garrett mentions, “They weren’t even raiders, just normal people doing what people do – being animals.”

At this, my master frowns at him, shouldering a substantial pack.

“No, really.” Garrett carries his own burden, the heaviest of all. “At their core, they’re sheep, herds. You can see it in every town we pass, in every gang we manage to avoid. People are dangerous.”

I ardently agree that this is accurate.

“You’re wrong,” my master argues. “It’s circumstantial. People are better than that. Or…they _can_ be.”

“Lookit you – _John McDonough, the people’s advocate_. Keep preaching. We’ll have plenty of time for you change your tune. From upstate Pennsylvania, I peg it five-hundred miles to Boston. Give or take.”

“Give or take,” my master concedes, avoiding another fight. “I’ll take a while.”

Garrett snorts. “Time isn’t a problem.”

I am unconcerned with time. Given proper maintenance, I am immortal. And it appears that I will be returning to the Commonwealth, the land of my makers.

Am I happy about this?

I am unsure.


	11. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode theme: [Kaleo "Way Down We Go" [Stripped Audio]](https://youtu.be/xfLdXqQSnEg/)

JOHN

Devil’s Brook, NJ

June 16th, 2275

Direct sunlight pounded uncomfortably on the back of John’s shirt, threatening to pull his focus away from his writing. Leaning over a wooden picnic table, he scratched words onto a piece of paper backed by the smooth aluminum surface of a surgical tray underneath, avoiding the tip of the pencil poking through the page each time he passed over a grove in the wood. He missed desks. And raised mattresses. And the privacy of a locked door. 

Land travel had been harder than expected, particularly with West in tow. They couldn’t go into settlements anymore, not with the robot, and the sight of a ghoul sent almost everyone they passed on the road scrambling for their weapons. John was human, a fact that granted him admittance into places that neither of his companions were allowed. He was the one to trade, banter, and enjoy whatever benefits there were at roadside shanties they stopped at. For the first time in his life, he felt the pinch of poverty. Without access to large cities and qualified merchants, his line of credit was useless. He understood the inherent value of bottlecaps now, and why people lost their lives over them.

Last night, they had thrown down their bags at a campsite bearing the ominous sign: _Devil’s Brook Campgrounds. No swimming._ Although it was late morning, all three of them took their time carrying out various tasks. A few yards away, West was at the water’s edge, washing their clothes in the river. Garrett sat across from John at the picnic table, smoking and cleaning their guns.

On a subtle high courtesy of a single Mentat, John wove words together, jotting down his new appreciation for being down in the gutter with the rest of civilization. He had done much better since losing _Wanderer_. Almost losing Garrett and the sudden inconvenience of having to travel on foot had served as a wake-up call. His notes had been retrieved after _Wanderer’s_ crash, as the bike’s assailants had been uninterested in paper prizes. His work was now catalogued, and he fought to remember what he had missed, what types of people he hasn’t studied. Brief outlines of social classes, government, religions and professions helped to jog his memory while looking for outliers, struggling to recall his conclusions.

John paused his composition to scrape his knife along the pencil’s tip, sharpening it. His hair had reached a length it was happy at, not growing so fast anymore. He would saw at the split ends with the same knife. “After I’m done in Diamond City,” he said as he whittled, “we could go west. See those awful treaty statues they put up in the Mojave. I saw a rendering in a gazette.”

“Spare me,” the ghoul grumbled, cigarette still in his mouth. He plucked it from his withered lips to flick ash. Smoke leaked from his nasal cavity and through the gash in his cheek. “Though if there’s one thing I miss, it’s the long Ranger coat. I looked good in that thing.”

“Did they have to hem it for you?”

Garrett leaned across the table to punch him in the shoulder. John’s skin tingled at the point of contact. _Put it away_ , he commanded himself. He threw himself back into writing, looking down before his cheeks could redden.

In the rotunda outside Underworld, it had taken him less than an instant to crack open Pandora’s Box. His body had acted on its own, knowing what John had trouble pinpointing – he had an undeniable crush on his friend, drawn in by his loyalty and fortitude. At Garrett’s refusal of him, John had felt a devastating blow that had taken some time to sort out. He had tried to kill the feeling, burying it deep down, locking it away and destroying the key, but it remained a low, futile simmer that made him squirm late at night. It was something that John had spent years trying to stifle. There was nothing to be done but endure it.

The two of them were closer than ever, compounding the problem. They had a goal now – making their way to the Commonwealth while skirting the Enclave and its informants, a united front come together to protect West. There were fewer women on the road, leading to an additional buildup of frustration. Again, John wished for that locked door where he could freely and literally take matters into his own hands, letting his imagination feast on a reality that would never come to pass. He had begun to look at men differently than before, guardedly, certain to never tip his hand while traveling. In any sizeable city, all options would have been his, and he would have been free to initiate any type of liaison he wanted, but the wrong word at the wrong scavver could end with his head split open on the pavement. He had seen it happen before, the memory a constant reminder to keep his mouth shut and his eyes from roaming.

John could cut this trip short at any time. He could still afford travel with reputable ship captains or railway conductors, using his family name to reach their destination relatively unscathed. He knew that Garrett was right, that he was past due going to visit his brother in his Emerald City to retrieve his papers and put them in order, to put together a coherent series of documents. He wanted to please Garrett, to reward him for all his patience. John was going to Diamond City for _him,_ to prove that a bunch of notes of paper could be the turning point for the Wasteland. But Garrett seemed relieved at the prospect of an end point, something that John found alarming. The sooner they arrived in Diamond City, the sooner their adventure would be over, and Garrett would no longer have a reason to stay. He’d leave. Or worse, he’d decide that he’d been given the green light to end his long life. How could John argue with him? What would he offer – the option to live in Diamond City? To live _with him_? It was an oddly domestic scenario that John had never realized he wanted. And so, he stalled at every chance, stretching their journey out as long as possible, denying the inevitable.

Reaching a natural stopping place, John leaned back from his work, fluffing his shirt to relieve some of the heat built up from the sun.

Garrett straddled the long picnic bench to fling the butt of his cigarette behind him. He hesitated to watch West stoop at the riverbank. “Look at our synth wife, hard at work,” he joked with approval.

West paused at his chore, turning his head in their direction. “Are we a family?”

Garrett and John looked at each other, faces blank.

“ _Family_ ,” West repeated as if he had been unclear. “A unit of individuals all connected through genetics or a joint societal group. Do we not share roles within the second definition?”

John snorted. “Sure, West. We’re a family.”

“Oh. Good. I’ve grown accustomed to you as my companions. Your deaths would bring an unwelcome adjustment.”

“Thanks…I think.”

A grin crawled over Garrett’s face. He winked a faded eye at John. “Better pack up, _Brother_. We’re burning daylight.”

John accepted the title with a smile, heart aching only a little.

They left the campground, following a pathway of tightly packed earth, keeping the river at one side. On the adjacent side, low hills rolled in gentle humps, their sides dotted with scraggly new-age flora fighting to survive.On the road, they all wore additional armor. Lightweight leather was John’s choice while West clanked about in polymer combat armor too big for his fragile frame. Garrett still sported the same hodgepodge of mismatched pieces he had worn for the last fifty years but had splurged on adding a ballistic weave to his underlayers.

An uneventful stroll took them to juncture where the dirt path and a paved highway intersected at a short, standalone building with boarded up windows. The presence of tattered flags and faded posters marked the structure as a military recruitment center and outpost. A pair of trucks with long trailers were parked in the back. Though low barriers blocked the road, the three of them easily wove between them and tried the doors. Unlocked – no one had been granted the time to secure the outpost before the bombs went off. 

A flurry of dust motes rode the shafts of light that protruded from slats in the window coverings and through the open door. Row upon row of dusty bottles sat displayed on a shelf behind a bar.

“West,” Garrett ordered, “hold the door open and keep your eyes on the road.”

“My pleasure.” Clank, clank, creak. The robot leaned against the open door, keeping it propped, letting paltry sunlight continue to shine in.

John gave a humored hum. “A ghoul, a bot, and a blonde walk into a bar. Gonna have to remember that one.” He hoisted himself over the counter and almost tripped over a skeleton in drab tatters clutching an empty bottle of vodka. “Surprised there’s anything left,” he said, picking through the shelves, foraging for packages of food, Nukas, and too many bottles of beer.

Wandering the foyer, Garrett noted, “This place is pretty much out of the way. Raiders stick to the main roadways to ambush caravanners. Not much of a reason to wander down to an irradiated riverfront. Looks like the military set this place up as a checkpoint. Not that anyone actually made it here.” He stopped before a poster that read, _Your Country Needs You! ENLIST!_   “Dick,” Garrett growled at the painting of a smiling solider featured on it before moving on.

“Does it bug you?” John asked with his arms in his pack, settling the beer bottles between clothing to prevent breakage. “Being around all the old world propaganda?”

He heard the opening and slamming of lockers at the rear of the building. “Used to,” Garrett’s voice called. “Now it just tastes kind of bitter, like regret. But these are some of the best place to find stockpiles. Well, granted they aren’t already picked clean.”

After giving a final once-over to the front room, John zipped up his pack, shouting, “Got what there was. Find anything?”

“I’ll say,” Garrett responded. He appeared momentarily with a smug grin and his hands full of firepower. A Fat Man. “The things people leave laying around. And check this out.” He flipped he weapon upside down, displaying it towards John. The name _Worst Case Scenario_ was engraved on the underside. “Ka-boom,” Garrett said proudly, shouldering the launcher. “Only one nuke, though. Guess I’d better save it.”

“That thing’s gonna get heavy,” John warned.

Garrett shrugged. “Probably.”

“We done?”

“Almost.” Garrett held up a hand, jingling a set of keys.

John smiled. “The trucks?”

“The trucks.”

In one truck, they found boxes of MREs stacked all the way to the top of the trailer, more than they could ever carry. Moving on to the second truck, Garrett twisted the key and slid the rolling door upwards. They crawled inside.

“Thank motherfuckin’ Hades,” the ghoul beamed, his expression radiant.

Towering before a collection of ammunition crates, a single suit of bulky power armor stood at attention. The helmet’s headlamp was centered and the eye slits broad, dipping slightly towards the nose bridge.

“Somethin’ from the good ol’ days?” John asked, leaning against the wall of the trailer.

“A T-51.” Garrett circled the armor, eyes bright with admiration. “Looks to be in better shape than anything we ever received in Wainwright.” He grinned yellowed, worn teeth at John. “We’re gonna take it.” Sliding behind the suit, Garrett grasped the release valve and cranked it.

From within the armor came a startled, hissing screech. A scraping sound built within the suit, something coming to life. They both leapt back, grasping for weapons; John pulled his knife, Garrett grabbed his pistol. The noises continued to emit from the immobile suit. Cautiously, Garrett crept forward and knocked on the suit’s helmet. The snarling became more vehement. “Feral inside,” he concluded. “This was almost me after the bombs fell. Poor, sorry bastard. Must have been guarding the supplies when the rads got ‘im.”

“What now?” John asked, twirling his knife.

“Can’t shoot it. Guts’ll get in the hydraulics. C’mere.” Garrett slipped his sidearm back into its holster and took hold to the value crank once again. “Stabby stab,” he instructed. “I’ll jump back once the suit opens. Ready?”

John took a firm hold on the handle of his knife. “Let’s do it.”

With a whoosh of depressurizing air, the back of the suit swung open. John darted forward as Garrett fell back. John sank the fingers of his free hand into the wet rags on the thing’s back, fingernails scraping putrid flesh. He lugged the feral towards him, striking fast and deliberate, burying his blade in the back of its head the moment it was free of the armor. It sagged in loose-limbed death as John cast it aside.

West’s head popped up over the edge of the trailer ramp. “Do you require assistance?”

“Little late,” John said, wiping his knife clean on his pants.

Garrett’s equipment hit the floor. He hoisted himself up into the armor. “Wish me luck,” he said as the back sealed behind him. The suit beeped some type of notification. “Fusion core at twenty-three percent,” came Garrett’s modified voice. “Good enough. I’ve got extra in the ammo bag.” The suit’s arms stretched out and rotated before falling to its sides. It took two steps, causing the entire trailer to vibrate.

With a smirk, John stated, “You’re tall.”

Garrett’s tinny laugh resonated. “Words I thought I’d never hear!”

After briefly exiting to secure his belongings within the suit’s hidden compartment holds, Garrett reentered his armor and slung the Fat Man over one shoulder. During that time, John made a hasty sign on one of the barriers. FOOD INSIDE, it read, with an arrow pointing to the MRE truck, should anyone in need happen to pass by. West pried open the boxes in the trailer with the dead feral and restocked their ammo.

It was a good haul. With high spirits, they trekked through brittle overgrowth to get back alongside the river. It wasn’t a particularly wide river – it wound through the countryside, cutting through slabs of rock and spilling over murky shallows before emptying into deep pools. Scraggly tree branches tried valiantly to reach the other side of their banks. The thundering footsteps of Garrett’s armor broke the tranquility of the otherwise organic setting. John had outpaced him, leading the trio as they crossed over a short wooden bridge. The handrails were broken off in sections, either by force or through dry rot. 

“Hell of a find, this suit,” Garrett said, stomping behind him. The bridge creaked underfoot. “That Fat Man woulda been giving me such a cramp in my –”

His voice was cut off by the crunch of splintering wood and the sharp sound of grating metal. A splash of water trailed the noise.

John whirled in time to see the Fat Man clatter to the bridge, a jagged hole in the wooden slats where the suit of power armor should have been. Instead, the suit was gone, undetectable beneath the river’s surface that flowed under the bridge.

A rush of panic spread through John chest. “Gare!” he shouted, struggling to pull his arms out of his pack’s straps. “Stay here!” he barked at West, dropping the bag at his feet. “Don’t move!” The robot was stationary, looking down into the wide hole in the bridge. John tugged off his boots and slipped over the edge of the bridge. He plunged into cold, irradiated water. Stroking, he took a breath before diving. He was stuck by a brief recollection of all the times he had been caught swimming off the shore of Liberty Isle as a child, his mother or governess yelling for him to come back while he happily paddled in the sea, hooking him up to a steady drip of RadAway once he complied.

He found Garrett’s suit wedged amongst a series of small boulders that partially buried it, the weight of the suit having knocked them free to slide into it. As the armor tried to open, a flurry of tiny bubbles escaped out its back. The rear plating kept knocking against rock as the release was pulled again and again, allowing for a rush of river water to pour inside. With the suit flooding, Garrett wouldn’t be able to seal it; he’d drown in his high-tech metal coffin.

John knocked on the armor’s faceplate. _I’m here_ , was the translation. _Gonna get you out._

In reply, he could have sworn he heard Garrett shout, “Don’t hurt the suit!”

He scrambled onto the shoulders of the armor and stood, breaking the surface – that was how shallow the river was. “West!” he called out, shaking his head to clear burning water from his eyes. “Grenade!” One promptly fell into his hands. “Get ready to pull me out!”

He dove back under and shoved it amongst rock amassed at the back of the suit. The pin was pulled, and he franticly scaled the suit again, shoving his arms into open air once he cleared the surface. “Pull me up! Pull me up!” Metal hands grabbed his outstretched wrists and heaved him out of the water. He dangled under the bridge as the explosion sent water spouting into the air all around him like a geyser.

As droplets fell in a shower, he ordered, “Let go!” He dropped back into the water, took a breath and dove to inspect the damage.

Almost. Underwater detonations were hard to control, and he had only managed to blow a hole in one side of the mound. The suit was still trapped.

His head poked out of the river. “Again!” he called to West.

He went through the process once more, placing the new grenade on the opposite side of the first. More of the same – hoisted out of the water, _boom_.

When West released him to drop into the river a second time, John found the stones broken apart. The back of the suit had succeeded in flipping open. Garrett was still inside. Skin tingling from the water, his eyes still burning, John tugged his friend free. He was heavier than John thought he would be; he hadn’t considered all of Garrett’s under-armor and concealed weapons. With monumental effort, John dragged to the surface and then to shore.

The world seemed to fall away as he hauled Garrett towards the embankment. It was as if he had gone deaf. He knew that he was screaming for help, it just didn’t seem to matter that he hear the words for himself. He grabbed his friend by the shoulders and tried to lift him out of the water. Additional hands were suddenly helping him – metal hands – and Garrett was lifted, his limbs dangling slackly, eyes closed, water trickling from his nasal cavity. They laid the ghoul on his back upon the silty beach, water running from his clothes and armor to pool beneath him. The color had been sucked from his face, leaving the normally warm, tanned tones of his face gray.

_No. This is wrong._

John yanked his friend’s chestpiece free and dropped into a kneel. He tilted Garrett’s head back, plugging the open nasal passage with two fingers. Placing a hand against the hole in the ghoul’s cheek, John pressed his mouth against Garrett’s, letting life flow into him with a few deep breaths. Another lesson his governess had insisted he learn. She knew it could be invaluable; his friend Mal had always thought it had been a waste of time. It had been in Mal’s case – he had been eaten by mutants and there had been nothing to save.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. I’m not supposed to rescue you._

He shifted, folding his hands and pressing up and down on his chest with a faultless rhythm. Strands of blonde hair waved into his face and Garrett’s body swayed under the force of each compression. West crouched on Garrett’s opposite side, engrossed in the tiny controls on the pommel of his sword.

_Unimaginably stupid._

He shuffled between positions, every few moments stopping to pressing his hand against Garrett’s withered neck, hoping, praying, for any sign of life. Time crawled. He wasn’t sure how long they were trapped in this loop – him attempting to breathe life back into his friend and Garrett not responding – he just knew that if he stopped the bubble holding his world together would burst.

_Dumb fucker. Why survive centuries just to fall in a river and drown?_ Garrett had endured far too much for this to be how he died.

The first sounds that penetrated John’s fog were his own soft grunts. When had he grown so tired and out of breath? West stooped nearby like a gargoyle, playing with that damn sword.

_Idiot robot. Useless._

“Heat signature fading,” commented West.

A crushing weight settled in John’s stomach. This wasn’t working.  “Come on!” he muttered in an undertone. Another breath. A memory flashed by of their one kiss in Underworld.

_I hate you._

More compressions. It almost didn’t seem real. The surface of the river was so still. Like nothing ever happened, like they weren’t even there _._

“Sir,” West said. “Stop.”

_Fuck you._

West reached across the ashen tone of Garrett’s body, gently taking hold of John’s hands, stilling them. John stared at the robot in horror of what he seemed to be suggesting.

“Sir,” West said, calmly. “You are obstructing my ability to assist.”

Desperate for anything, John reeled back, out of the way.

Swiftly, West tore at the ghoul’s shirt. Drawing himself up straight, the robot angled the tip of his humming sword down over Garrett’s chest. In a simple, small motion, he touched his sword to Garrett’s chest. The ghoul’s body jerked as if electrocuted, an involuntary gasp shuddering its way through his throat. Once more.

Garrett’s pale eyes opened to stare at the sky above him, a horrified expression of shock on his gray face as water bubbled out his mouth. Winced hard, he coughed, turned his head and retched a torrent of rad-infused river water. He rolled onto his back and seemed frozen in place. Then, he blinked. “Hey,” he sputtered. He gasped and cringed, coughing again. His smile looked frail and strained as he forced air into his lungs. “Suit okay?”

John shook with tension as West sheathed his sword. “You asshole!” Still sitting on his ass by the river, John’s fists clenched, tendons straining. “You…you…” Adrenaline and emotion flying, he couldn’t catch his breath to form insults.

The ghoul’s eyes had gone glassy and unfocused. Struggling to stand, Garrett repeatedly flopped bonelessly to the ground, his strength sapped. John rushed to help him up. Against John’s side, he felt ice-cold. The ghoul set his jaw and unsteadily pushed himself away. He straightened his back, drawing himself up as fully as he could, locking his knees. Water dripped from his bandana and into his eyes. He pressed an open palm against his sternum – no doubt bruised from John’s compressions – and grimaced. “I’ll be fine.” He took a heavy step towards the river. “Gotta get the suit out before it shorts.”

West reached to restrain him. “I must protest.  You’re too weak.”

“I’m…fine…I have to…get it done,” he said, the words coming out clipped.

Taking a hold of his upper arm, John said, “Gonna have to sit this one out, Brother.”

“Stop it!” Garrett shouted, hysterical, his voice hoarse. He tore his arm away. “We have to get it! We need it! I need it!” He scanned the rocky beach and the surrounding area. “Where’s my launcher? Did it go in the river?”

Unexpectedly jolted by the force of his demand and the blazing fury crackling to life behind his hard, bloodshot eyes, John wasn’t sure how to respond.

West dipped his head and asked, “Is he malfunctioning?”

“Gare,” John said, reaching out in what he hoped was a nonthreatening manner. “It’s okay. Everything’s fine.”

Swaying on his feet, Garrett roared, “No! It is not okay! I’m supposed to die in some huge, heroic way, not in some soggy creek in Jersey. So, give me my armor and my big, fucking gun and stop playing it down!”

“Playing what down?”

“That I’ll never get there!” Garrett choked out. “That I’ll stay alive for no reason and I’ll never have that one moment that matters!”

“Ah, Gare,” John muttered, starting to place his friend’s panic. “You’re gonna matter. When we get to Diamond City, it’s gonna be because of you. Everything we’ve done –”

“– won’t matter if I die in a ditch and you never make it!” Looking bleak and ashamed, Garrett dropped his eyes.

John closed his hand around the ghoul’s wrist. “This was just an accident. That’s all it was. It wasn’t a warning or a punishment. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re here. You pulled though. And I’m gonna count that as a win. Can’t promise you your big moment. I hope you get what you want. But every day…” His voice cracked, and he struggled to calm himself. “But every day I get to have you with me is a day worth having. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to pull my shit together and I’m not sorry at all. Without you, I don’t really know who I am. It’s been too long. We share too much. Part of me never wants this to end. But I know you do, you wanna put it to bed and be done. I’m a selfish ass for making you stay but I can’t stand it if you go. You’ll break me.”

He had to forcibly stop himself before he started crying and admitting things that were futile. The two of them stood there, Garrett silent staring down at John’s hold on him. It was an honest moment between them. No joking, no insults, no bluster.

“I still need to get the suit out of the river.”

“It’s flooded.”

“It can be salvaged.”

“ _Gare_ –”

“I can retrieve the armor,” West offered. “I understand the mechanics and do not require oxygen.”

John looked to Garrett, who nodded.  

They camped by the river that night, the suit wide open and airing out. In the morning, they altered course, leaving the waterway behind to tromp across the countryside in a straight line, closing the distance to Diamond City.


	12. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode Theme: [ ''Aint No Grave'' by Hidden Citizens ](https://youtu.be/mE6uIHsuoSA/)

WEST

Memory Log Entry #1588

Though the sword is in my hand, it is of little use.

“Go! Go! Don’t stop!” Garrett urges from the rear. My master’s blonde ponytail bounces as he runs ahead of me, shotgun forgotten in his hands.

As we race down a narrow dried-out riverbed, gore bags soar by overhead, russet walls painted with wide, red swipes. The air is thick with the whistle and ping of flying bullets. _A hail of lead?_ Is that the saying?

“Gonna kill you, Bucket Head!” a deep, guttural voice shout in between rounds of fire. “Crack you open like a Mirelurk to get the meats!”

Mutants. Stumbling upon these powerfully-built, hairless humanoids always made my master freeze. Caught in a memory, his body would lock up and his eyes lose focus. The ghoul would shake him from it and they would fight or flee.

This particular horde had appeared at the top of a riverbed, fifty meters above us as we traveled through upstate New York, taking a wide berth around New York City. When a volley of bullets began to rain down, we dumped our packs and took to running. Unencumbered and limber, my master is at the lead, myself coming in second, Garrett falling to the back as his heavy armor makes short if powerful strides, the Fat Man clutched in his hands as to avoid the nuke being detonated by a stray bullet.

“Stop running away! Will crush you!” several mutants call as they chasealong at higher levels. “Will pull your legs off one by one!”

We are faster than them, but only by a fraction. Garrett’s hulking suit of power armor provides a partial shield, soaking up the gunfire raining down towards our backs. The proximity of the suit bides us time, soaking up the full volley of minigun rounds, denting it and causing the armor’s plating to flake off. If not for the suit’s bulk, my master and I would have been instantly shredded with bullets.

The Institute cannot claim credit for the horde’s secondary forces following behind us – bulky hounds and squat centaurs. Garrett had once explained centaurs as ‘ _a clusterfuck of animal D.N.A. all dumped into an F.E.V. blender_.’ Though slow, the centaurs’ toxic spit closed the distance between them and us, the globules shooting overhead or landing at our heels. The hounds are fast, their howls sounding nearer and nearer.

Heavy breathing emits from the filters of the power armor helmet; my master sucks in greedy gulps of air. The path we race along changes its angle. A row of chain-link springs into existence on one side of the dusty riverbank. An open gate leads up a short path to an unassuming wooden door struck in the canyon wall. Stamped into nearby sign was a symbol resembling a gear. I have seen that emblem before. “Sir, vault ahead.”

“Gare –”

“I see it. Get inside!”

We scurry through the gate, towards the wooden door, nearly tipping on the incline. I do wonder if this is part of the mutants’ plan, to trap us here. Snare or not, we have little choice. Master leads us up the trail, grasping for the wooden door and flinging it open. We scurry down a short tunnel lit in patches by glowing flora. Sunlight filters through slats in the wood door, casting wide stripes of light on the ground. Up ahead, a massive vault door – the number 62 stamped in the center – sits cracked open, giving barely a shoulder-width of space to slither though. My master ducks in. I follow. Garrett stumbles to a halt and exits his armor, the breadth of the suit too wide to fit inside. “Can you seal it?” he yells as he slings the Fat Man over his shoulder, jogging down a gangway to join us inside of a shallow entry area.

“I don’t know how,” my master responds with a classic tinge of hysteria in his voice.

A sizzling ball of radiation-laced saliva hits me in the chest, bowling me over. I hear the snuffling and baying of hounds as they charge down the dirt path to the vault.

“Fall back!” Garrett orders as my master hauls me up by an arm. He races around the perimeter of the vault foyer, punching at doorway release controls. When one door grinds to life and slides open, we stumble through it. The ghoul twists a valve on the back of the door, sealing it shut.

For the moment, we have time to breathe – an allegory, as I don’t need air. The room we find ourselves in is bathed in red emergency lights, reminding us of the peril we face. A sign above doorway reads _Observation_. There are no windows, no other exits. The walls are lined with banks of monitors, the screens filled with black-and-white images from within the vault, including different angles of the entry gangway and the interior corridors. Nothing moves within the interior of the vault. It is dead. Perhaps there was a mass escape at some point, resulting in the vault seal being cracked open just enough for a body to slip through.

I sheath my sword. Being underground, metal walls on all sides, feels not unlike home.

A muffled scuffling sound creeps through the walls. Garrett’s eyes are hard as he watches malformed mutant hounds fill the entry over the monitors. Centaurs try to shove themselves in, all vying for access, their wide bodies stuck in the narrow opening of the seal, tentacles lashing angrily from their mouths as armleg appendages paw at the air. The space beyond the centaurs is darkened by eight-foot tall bodies all jostling for entry. Coarse voices come from the monitors’ sound systems. “Am Super Mutant! Want to fight! Bathe in your blood! Suffer and bleed!”

“Well, now what?” my master asks, balancing his shotgun over a shoulder. The rings on his fingers glint under the lights. “Looks like we get cozy in this room for the rest of our lives.”

One of the centaurs sends a glob of saliva flying at the sealed door. Garrett curses. “The acid and rads in centaur spit’ll eat through the door. Only have a few minutes. We’ve gotta take ‘em out.”

“You got a plan for that?” my master asks.

“I…yes.” He falls quiet. A second dollop of hissing spit hits the door. The ghoul takes a long inhale. “When I say so, let me out.”

My master frowns, cocks his head, brows nearly meeting above his nose. “Let you – wait, what?”

Garrett loads the Fat Man, face neutral under his bandana, looking anywhere but at my master. “You’ll needs to hit the hounds for me, clear a path. Secure the door after I’m out. The vault seal will function as a partial buffer. After, you should wait to leave. Radiation levels will be too high.”

“What do you mean _after_? After what?” My master grabs him by the elbow. “Gare” – his voice crackles, pleading and desperate – “you’re not going out there. Maybe they’ll give up, leave.”

“When have you ever seen mutants give up a hunt? Once there’s a hole in the door, this won’t work.” With a grimace, Garrett twists a bulky ring from his finger **.** “Here,” he says, handing it to my master. He sighs and gives an unconvincing smile. “For your collection.”

My master shakes his head and steps away, fear creeping into his eyes. “No. No way. I’m not takin’ that.”

“John, we don’t have time! Please, take it.”

With a trembling hand, my master does.

“John. It’s okay. I don’t want you to feel bad. I’ve had a long life. I think, when it happens, you just know it’s time.” His voice hitches, a crack in Garrett’s resolve. “You’d better do all those things you’ve talked about. Go home. Write a constitution. Matter.” He reaches forward, tugs my master’s forehead to his.

My master is crying. Is this grief? Already?

With a quick gulp, Garrett’s demeanor shifts back to his normal, pragmatic self and he draws away. He pulls a grenade from a pocket and gives it to me. “West, open the door and chuck this. John, take those hounds down. I need room to run. Got it?”

My master doesn’t speak, only nods.

“I am prepared,” I affirm. I wonder if I am the only one that is.

“Okay,” Garrett says simply. He brings the launcher up. “Here we go.”

As I crank the dial, my master sinks to a knee, aiming his shotgun. The door swings open. I lob the grenade at the cluster of mutants and centaurs clogging the tunnel. Shotgun pellets tear the faces off the hounds one by one. Garrett rushes out, ducking centaur spittle. The grenade blows, causing chaos and fury as the mutants howl in pain and surprise. The ghoul throws himself into the throng past the seal and is lost from view.

I close the door.

“Hahaha! It’s a ghoul!” the audio feeds play. “Stupid ghoul. Yes, come out and fight!”

My master rushes to the monitors to watch a screen featuring the tunnel passage. Although the image is far from clear, he and I watch as mutants charge the launcher-carrying ghoul. Master holds his breath as Garrett aims his Fat Man at the ground.

A blinding flash whites out the monitor image before the feed turns to snow. The nuclear explosion rocks the entry, causing the observation room to shudder. The red lights flicker, threatening to plunge us into darkness. Objects bang against the door, threatening to blow it inwards. The whooshing roar outside dulls into absolute silence. The emergency lights return to full, if feeble, power.

With a stunned expression, my master lowers himself to kneel on the tile floor of the observation room. A tremble gradually builds within him until he is shaking all over, vibrating like a faulty motor.

I am not programmed to offer comfort. I do not know the correct words.

He sits that way for hours as we wait for the temporary radiation burst to settle. I listen as his respiration goes through cycles of rapid gasps and deep, forced breaths. After a time, my master stands, his face looking drawn and tired in the red light. “Open the door,” he says in a fierce whisper. I scramble to comply. He moves slowly, as if moving through viscous liquid, one heavy step at a time, shotgun strapped to his back.

The entryway is vacant, bits of mutated flesh adhering in charred lumps to dented walls. A scattering of bones, fabric and rubble heap in corners. Blast marks stretch towards us from the ajar seal. Nothing moves.

Squeezing through the open seal, we both watch our footing as to not trip over piles of mutated carcasses. Arms, legs and unrecognizable pieces litter the tunnel. The flora glowed even brighter than before, as if had fed off the radiation from earlier, filling the tunnel with diffused green light. My master finds the suit of armor, warped and useless. He struggles briefly with the hidden storage compartments within it, finally succeeding in pulling a canteen – its contents irradiated now – and a sidearm free. The automatic handgun, shielded deep within the suit, appears to be operational.  

Something screeches and my master tumbles to the ground. He scrambles away on his backside, kicking free of whatever had snagged his ankle.

In a flash, my sword is in my hand. I pose to strike.

“Wait!” my master commands.

I lower my weapon.

Rolling to all fours, my master gapes wide-eyed at the thrashing mass of flesh before him. A thin-fingered hand makes swiping motions, intending to grab him again. Two gold eyes glow beneath a tattered camouflage bandana as gnashing teeth snap in vicious malice.

A low wail tears from my master’s throat, growing into a rumbling scream that echoes through the corridor. “Goddamn you!” he yells in between wrenching cries. “Motherfucker!”

What remains of Garrett is in a feral state, little more than a torso, arm and head seeking to attack my master should he creep close enough. His splintered fingernails dig into the packed earth of the tunnel, heaving his torn body towards living flesh in short lurches, creeping a few slow inches each time.

Although I have been built without a Geiger counter, I know that the radiation inside hovers near deadly levels. My master is still in jeopardy. “Sir, we should vacate.”

“I can’t leave him like this.”

I tilt my head. “Is that necessary?”

He is shaking again. “ _Is that necessary_?” he repeats as though his hearing is damaged. Shoving off the ground, my master stares spitefully at me. “Of course, it’s fucking necessary! It’s necessary for him and it’s sure as hell necessary for me!”

I stay silent and do not answer. I am good at that.

He paces like a wild animal, desperate noises building and fading in a loop, the handgun quivering in his grip. In mid-pace, he stops, whirls and shoots Garrett’s feral self in the head, emptying the entire clip. With gritted teeth, he keeps pulling the trigger even after the magazine is empty, keeps up with the motion until I twist the gun from his hands.

“Sir? John. John, stop. Additional action is not required.”

The greenish glow of the cave fungus makes him appear wan and sickly as he stares at the shattered skull and chunks of brain smeared on the earth. He is gasping for oxygen, his face, neck and collar so wet with tears it looks as if he had been standing in rain. He turns and strides from the tunnel. My legs pump to keep up.

As we retrace our steps back to our discarded packs, my master’s shoulders tight before me, the sun dips over the towering lip of the riverbed wall. Possessed by anxious overactivity, my master digs through the bags, tossing items aside. Bullets for weapons he never uses. Spare armor and clothing that are not his. In a melodramatic fit of anger, he hurls a boxed trifold flag at the ravine wall. The container shatters, glass shards and splitters exploding.   

This action confuses me. “Is it customary,” I ask, “to destroy the belongings of the deceased?”

“Go fuck yourself, West.”

The command is a physical impossibility.

Master bends forward as his stomach heaves, either from the radiation soaked up inside the vault tunnel or from anguish. Humans seem inefficient at processing changes without great emotional distress.

When his wheezing slows to even breathing, he stands, wiping his mouth. He walks over to the wreckage of the smashed trifold, and tugs the flag within it free. It unfurls in the breeze, bold stripes and stars waving, a stark comparison to the stillness of my master. After blankly gazing for a time, he wraps the flag around his forearm and returns.

“Let’s go.”

I retrieve one of the packs, lighter now, as does he. I trail at a distance, out of reach should he feel the sudden need to destroy unnecessary things, such as me, again.

Hours later, the moon high, my master shows no sign of slowing or intending to make camp. He inhales one canister of narcotics after another. With trepidation, I mention something. “Sir, we are going the wrong way.” We have swung south, no longer headed to the Commonwealth.

“No, we’re not.”

I have no response for this. I follow.

By morning, my master is stumbling, tired, despondent, and slow from the drugs. He has unwrapped the flag from his arm and tied it around his waist. Garrett’s ring has found a home on his middle finger. When a shabby cluster of roadside buildings comes into view, he shoves his pack at me, saying, “Stay here.”

He leaves me standing in a bare-branched thicket by the side of a rural motorway. I wait here for three days.

Occasionally, I catch glances of my master – easily recognizable by the flag he wears – in the settlement down the road. Each time, he is minus a piece of armor and has gained a bottle of alcohol or female companion. If he is selling his armor for indulgences, this stopover can only last so long. All other trade goods have been left with me.

At the end of the third day, two authorities dressed in black leather toss my master into the roadway. Except for the flag, he is naked. “Take your damn bender elsewhere, idiot,” my audio sensors pick up. “We got standards here.”

My master stands without shame, albeit swaying on his feet. He staggers back up the road towards me.

“Sir, are you fully functional?” I ask, as he retrieves his pack from me.

“Shut up.” He refiles through his scant belongings, pulling a shirt and pants from the bag. There is no second pair of shoes. When he lights a cigarette, I note that he still owns all his rings, six in total. Selling them instead of his armor would have been the wiser decision. Too late now.

And so, we begin our new arrangement. Our travels are brief, just long enough to acquire more goods, as we hop from one town to the next. I am left in hiding while my master disappears to fill his time and mind with substances and brief encounters. Once he has taken his fill of any one location, we journey on without a destination.

While we travel, my master says little. What he utters is filled with such loathing and anger that I dare not reply. He ceases to encourage the use of specific pronouns in my dialogue. All writing has stopped. Nothing is forwarded to Diamond City.

Left alone for the eighteenth occasion, this unit attempts to create a contingency. It is becoming increasing likely that my master will not return from a debaucherous episode. Should that occur, this unit has no basis on which to make decisions without additional input and would remain immobile indefinitely. Should money change hands, there will be a new master.  

This unit is unsure of the future.

This unit is afraid.  


	13. Chasing Ghosts: Episode 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode Theme: [Terminator Theme - Piano Cover](https://youtu.be/VXwYhSScYQo/)

JOHN

Rockville Ruins, MD

Summer, 2277

“Sir?” _Sir_ … _Sir_ ….

John groaned and buried his head under his pack. Items rolled around inside; the clink of glass bottles sounded like loud gunshots blasting through his brain, they nearly making him jump.

“We should be on our way.” _On our way_ … _way_ … _way_ …the voice continued to echo.

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck down?” John grumbled. His head pounded.

“No, Sir. I do not.”

Pulling the bag off, John rolled over and squinted up. Intruding daylight stole his vision before returning it fractured and blurry. Half a dozen Wests melded into a single synth looking down at him with its head tilted. He was grateful for West’s expressionless face – he didn’t have to witness the disappointment and judgement he was certain he deserved.

On his back atop a piece of dry yet uncomfortable cardboard bedding, John ground the heels of his palms into his temples. The second story of the building in which they were camped was exposed, the ceiling long since collapsed into the center of the structure. Last night, John had made it up a rickety stairwell before flopping into a corner where the support beams were still intact to fade between rounds of sleep and hallucinations as West patrolled the first floor and the perimeter.

The morning light – or afternoon, for all he knew – was too bright, causing his eyes to ache. Sensations such as a tickle of breeze or the scratch of fabric on skin made the insides of his teeth throb with overwhelming intensity. Keeping his eyes closed, he patted the ground until he found his bag. He lugged it into his lap and began rooting through it, searching for Jet. He needed to feel foggy, to combat obtrusive reality. His hand closed over a large, cylindrical can. _There ya go – Turbo._ He awkwardly sucked hits from the aerosol canister, a soft blanket of haze settling over him within seconds.

Not that he wasted time worrying, but it was nice to be back on the road, in the middle of nowhere with West watching his back. He had awoken several times at inns and stopovers to find his weapons stolen, either by the questionable company he kept or by the women he took to bed. Once, while he lay in a chem-induced stupor, some fucker had taken his rings. After hunting the guy down and reclaiming his trinkets, John made sure that the man died slow and painful. Now, he only carried his non-descript knife and the easily replaceable 9MM. When he was going to be incapacitated by mind-numbing bliss following the prick of a syringe, he left his rings with West. Although parting with them, even for that short while, caused anxiety to flair, the feeling was short lived and ended by the time the plunger had been fully depressed.

He had fallen into a pit of substance and discord, addicted to, well, everything. Why on Earth would he stop now? His collection of regular and exotic chems kept a tight cap on that creeping feeling of insignificance that threatened to snag him with serrated claws and yank him down into abject blackness. He drowned himself in alcohol, chems and women – almost reckless enough to finally try a man. So far, he hadn’t been dumb enough to shoot up on the road, saving that indulgence for drug dens or the back rooms of bars. Never trip alone, and West had a limited capacity for CPR. Rescue breathing was out of the question.

John suddenly found himself wet, dripping with river water as his heart pounded, struggling to plug all the holes in Garrett’s face. One breath. Another.

Just as abruptly, he was back in the present, staring straight up. West’s lidless eyes continued to peer down at him, yellow optics bright inside the tarnished surface of his face. “Shall I forage for sustenance, Sir? Or procure a can of water?”

His stomach roiled, a quick bout of nausea. “Fuck no. Maybe never again.” He was rarely hungry; when he did eat, everything tasted like plastic. 

John reached for a pair of bracers beside his depressing bed, and wiggled them on. These were the only pieces of armor he wore – anything else made him feel confined, compressed and anxious. They wrapped around the sleeves of his loose white shirt, concealing the track marks that had begun to trickle down his arms.

Slowly, each step an effort, he slung his bag of meager belongings over one shoulder and picked his way down the exposed stairs. West’s metallic toes clicked on the rungs behind him. Their possessions had grown so scarce that the synth no long carried a rucksack. John emerged from the skeletal structure, the roads clear, a barren atomic desert stretching to the horizon. Other houses, all in the same condition or worse, flanked the street on each side. He fell into a march, head down, watching his feet plod in the opposite direction that they had come from yesterday, following the road wherever it led. 

After an hour, and without intending to, they found themselves approaching a city center. A cluster of lofty businesses circled a wide-open concourse that had once been a park, an oasis of green within the urban sprawl. Tall brick buildings had dumped their facades all over the thoroughfare, piles of pulverized clay and shale obstacles to walk around to trudge through, kicking up clouds of minerals. John kept his eyes peeled for signs of residency, painted signs or towering plumes of generator smoke. If he didn’t reach a reputable city with well-connected vendors soon to tap his account, their cap collection would dry up. He didn’t have anything left for trade other than a bag full of chems, and he wasn’t willing to part with any of them.

A steady thrumming beat the air, signaling the approach of a vertibird. John craned his neck to find it. A shadow passed overhead, sending a nervous quiver shooting through him. Seeking cover, John sprinted too fast, scrambling over broken buildings in a dexterous way that caused West to fall behind.

“Sir, wait, please. This unit cannot keep pace.”

He circled back to clutch the robot by the cold metal shoulders and drive it forward in a hurried stumble, forcing them both towards a partially crumbled building. Several stories above them, a logo taller than John dangled from the apex of the structure. Ducking inside, John raced down hallways, West at his heels. Past a defunct elevator, he found a stairwell. He climbed it, poking his head out at each level, checking to see if there was a gap in the wall to spy out of. On the fifth floor, he found one, a cavity in the plaster and drywall of an office suite large enough to toss a desk out of. The opening was by the floor, obscured in part by straight columns of rebar, and he settled to his knees to peer out of it.

From his viewpoint, he could spot a roadblock down the street – had he and West continued on their path, they would have walked straight into it. A massive landing strip had been cleared in the center of the city common. Footsoldiers in brown uniforms waved to a vertibird, signaling for it to touch down on the dried earth of the park. Once the airborne beast had landed, heavily armored Hellfire Troopers spilled out of the cabin.

An Enclave fallback position. They must have inadvertently made their way back down to the Capital outskirts.

“We’ll bivouac here,” a woman in an officer’s hat spoke to the gathered assembly. Though she projected with clear diction and authority, John strained to hear from his perch high above. “Once units return from D.C., the next wave will be sent out. Rinse, repeat until the Brotherhood falls. Search the buildings for additional supplies and watch all entry points. The Wasteland has eyes, people. Keep weapons hot. Reports from Raven Rock –”

The whirr of additional descending vertibirds drowned out the rest of her speech.

John slumped against the wall, keeping out of sight should someone scan the building with binoculars. He regretted rejecting West’s offer to scavenge for food and water. Without either, he couldn’t wait for the Enclave forces to clear out. Once the Enclave dug in, only excessive might drove them away.

“Sir, you need to destroy this unit.”

Startled, John scowled at West. The robot stood still, watching him with eternal patience. That was West’s flaw. Garrett’s, too. Had they been less patient and more aggressive, he would be in Diamond City by now, or at the Capital, being less of a loser and more like the hero he’d promised he would be. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” John snarled. “Shut up. I’ll get us through this.”

“Any action against the Enclave will result in your death. You are unaffiliated. They have no reason to target you without my presence,” West explained in his calm manner. “This unit can cause an internal shutdown but cannot disassemble itself, nor scatter the components.”

For several moments, John couldn’t speak. The robot’s morbid suggestion of mutilation was sound. And completely absurd. “I ain’t gonna take you apart. What kind of a bullshit solution is that?”

A distant cracking sound make John turn his head and peek through the hole in the wall. Across the street, troopers were tearing down a boarded-up doorway, storming into the building to clear it. In time, they would make their way to this building, to this floor, to this room.

“Sir, it is absolutely improbable that this unit will intentionally vacate this structure. This unit understands –” West broke off. He seemed to struggle, a few minute ticks clicking within his head before beginning again. “ _I_ understand why you and Garrett would put yourselves in jeopardy for one another. That was friendship. That was love. It is regrettable that I cannot feel this emotion for myself, but I am able to repay you for your protection and concern. Please allow my sacrifice to be the solution.”

West had come so far with his pronouns – _I, me, myself._ Without Garrett, John had descended into pool of self-loathing so deep that he had dragged the robot in after him. Since the incident in the vault, he had treated West appallingly and knew it. John wouldn’t have done it to a real person. “Look, I…I’m sorry for treating you like…like a…”

“A machine, Sir?”

John nodded.

“I am one. My purpose is to provide assistance.” West cocked his head. His optics whirred, segmented irises growing in size, then shrinking again. “Have I failed to do so?”

The heavy weight of helplessness pressed down on John’s shoulders. He felt himself wilt. “No. I’ve failed _you_.”

Garrett had asked to go so many times. West hadn’t willingly joined them. Keeping them tethered had served only John, allowing him to use them as guard dogs and caretakers while he grappled with finding out who he was. They had accepted his mistakes and forgiven him. And it cost them their lives. 

A bubble of expanding guilt in his chest made it difficult to breathe. “West –”

“That isn’t my name,” the robot boldly interrupted.

John paused to digest that. “I’m tired of watching my friends die.”

“Sir…this unit was never alive.”

_This unit._

_Him._

_It._

_The toaster._

All argument fled. This was the only recourse. They both knew it.  

West removed the scabbard containing his sword and gently placed it on a nearby desk. He then reached out and, with his mechanical strength, wrenched a lengthy piece of rebar free from the observation hole. He surrendered it to John, who stared down at it. The bar felt heavy and ungainly in his hands. He drew a ragged breath and asked, “West?”

Silence. John glanced up. The robot stood before him, arms dangling, optics faded and lifeless, a metal figurine. Just circuits and wiring without a soul.

“West?” he tried again.

Anxious jitters made John’s hands tremble. Nerves, or the slight beginnings of withdrawal? Christ, he had expected to be granted a few last words before the end of their partnership. Though, John supposed, he didn’t really deserve it.

Blurred images surfaced from his memory – Mal’s breathless screaming while mutants delightedly laughed…visiting the morgue in New York…Garrett snapping his jaws, reaching out with his remaining hand...

_This is my curse. Everybody dies._

Taking the bar in one hand, he slid the chem pack to the ground. He circled the robot, gaze drifting over each joint, noting the construction, looking for weak points. Several times, he stepped nearer, only to hop backwards.

_You time-wasting son-of-a-bitch,_ he could hear Garrett scold. _Quit being a sentimental fucker and do it._

Gunfire erupted, vague and echoing. Enclave soldiers had found something alive and combatant in an adjacent building. 

Lunging, John brought the bar down against the synth’s alloyed cranium, grunting as he did it again and again, a different angle for each blow, until the metal dented inwards and the bar warped. Every strike made the bones in his forearms vibrate. As adrenaline flowed through his body, all he could hear were the cries of his own strain and the resounding clang of metal against metal. Limbs loosened and came apart, sending the automaton tumbling to the floor with a weighty clank. Still, John continued his assault. Teeth bared and straining, he jabbed the bar down, ricking it back and forth to pry pieces apart. Tiny fragments of steel went flying in all directions, an occasional spark shooting blue light.

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep going, just knew that he had to. Seizing an opportunity, he threw his entire weight forward and sank the edge of the bar into the robot’s chest cavity. He snapped the bar hard to one side, popping a series of hoses free. Lubrication fluid sprayed from severed mechanics, the scent of iron and copper pervasive. An explosion of vicious sparks momentarily stole John’s sight and knocked him back, causing him to release the bar.

Grabbing West’s sword from its sheath, he used the blade to saw though wires and plastic connectors, hacking like a madman until his friend resembled a heap of spare parts. He brought the pommel down, smashing the head apart, crushing each eye as it rolled along the matted carpet. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore. The sword fell from his numb fingers.

He sank down, bracing his elbows on his knees, and finally remembered to breathe. A wave of exhaustion crept up. Fresh pain cut at him as though he had swallowed crushed glass. The first choking sob rose before he could stop it. The crackling and popping of short-circuiting conduits were the only witnesses to his shameless weeping. He cried for everyone – for West, who hadn’t even been real. For Garrett, who deserved a better end to his story. For Stacia, whose only fault had been not asking for help. For Mal, who started all of this eight years prior. _“We’ll find Stac and be back before anyone knows we’re gone. Promise_.”

Though he wished for the luxury of falling apart, time wasn’t on his side. He stooped to gather components in his hands. Making several quick trips throughout the building, he left a little piece of West on each floor, in desks and file cabinets, in bathrooms sinks and in briefcases. It was if as the synth had faded from existence **.** John kept a single hex nut for himself, sliding it onto a finger next to Garrett’s academy ring.

He returned to office with the hole in the wall, his guts watery and his hands trembling. Grief battered his sense; he felt sharp on the inside and blurry on the periphery. Retrieving his chem bag, he yanked it open, desperate for relief. He contemplated the thin syringes of Med-X inside, but their effects would render him helpless when the Enclave stumbled across him.

Fuck. For the time being, he had to live with this, with the he sensation of snakes squirming in his abdomen. _Killer_ , they hissed. _Vagrant._

With a loose grip on West’s sword, John descended the stairs to the ground floor. At the doorway leading out, he raised his hands, heart pumping fast and out of sync. A cluster of Enclave troopers stared down their sights at him. In a gesture of subjection, he surrendered West’s sword. It was brusquely yanked from his hand, and he was granted a, “Move along, citizen.” After that, no one gave him a second glance as he guardedly evacuated the area.

He walked the road, following its twists and turns without a glance at the skyline. Long afternoon shadows grew to cover the entire roadway with warped silhouettes of barren trees and rock formations. The silence beside him was daunting. With no companion by his side, he was alone for the first time since he was a child.

Eventually, the shadows were engulfed by night, his footsteps becoming perilous in the darkness. Without setting camp, he sagged into a ditch by the side of the road. Throwing caution to the wind, he drank greedy gulps at water from a surely irradiated puddle. He fell victim to the whispered promise of the Med-X, injecting two syringes before passing out.

He lost track of time for a while. The sun went up, and the sun went down. A single well-stocked gas station provided him with enough food to eliminate immediate concern. The placement of the sun told him that he was heading south. He jolted as he remembered his and Garrett’s brief layover in the Capital. There were cities there where he could access his account, and a landing dock housing boats that could take him anywhere. The option of Diamond City had always been present, waiting for John to come to his senses, pull on his grown-up pants, make the damn trip. Years of wandering the region when he could have gone to lean on his brother’s good graces at any time. A nauseating swell of shame wracked him – what an insult to Garrett’s memory if John never completed their journey. And West, who had endured John’s spiteful downward spiral up until the end, deserved better than to have his sacrifice be in vain.

Ok, then. South it was, treading along the road and keeping his eyes up for a change, scanning for obstacles, particularly the kind with weapons. That threat of possible danger plucked him from his stupor, forcing him back in his body and ensuring that he took stock of his surroundings.

The tell-tale odor of smoke reached John’s nose before he was able to pinpoint its source. His purposeful stride slowed. Columns of charcoal-gray soot rose in the distance, churning against a yellowish haze that clung to the skies over Washington D.C. He proceeded with vigilant concern, each step wary.

A path of fresh destruction cut through the city. Bombs had recently fallen, leaving D.C. in worse shape than John remembered it. Smoldering wreckage, still orange in the center, cluttered the streets. Local nobodies – farmers, scavengers and such – piled tech into wagons, while a few Brotherhood soldiers sealed in armor barked orders at them. The clatter of falling glass and concrete sounded intermittently, causing the shabby workers to dive for cover while the chunks of debris bounced off power armor with little consequence. One of the soldiers asked John if he wanted to make a few caps hauling salvage, but he shook his head and kept onwards, praying that the Mall was still intact. 

It was, its ruined state untouched by recent events. The fire barrels in Underworld still burned, glowing as John sneaked inside the foyer. A congregation of ghouls bunched in front of a makeshift stage topped by some charlatan pawning barrels of water. John shouldered through the crowd to enter the main exhibit hall. Underworld was a very different place without a Garrett, full of spiteful eyes and the occasional ghoul spitting at his feet.

He was lowballed when he sold his items, even the pack he wore, for the hard currency of bottlecaps. The caps didn’t amount to much, but he did purchase a head-clearing shower. He left the inn with only the clothes on his back, his rings, bracers, and knife. And his chems, of course, their containers causing obscene bulges in his pants. He didn’t need anything else.

In the Ninth Circle, he found a barkeep savvy enough to know how to use codes. Through him, John accessed his account and pulled enough funds to charter a boat that would take him up to the Commonwealth. 

The big ghoul was still there, stagnant in the same corner he’d been in years prior. John left the bar and approached him. “Do you remember me? I came here with Garrett Grant once. You guys served in the Desert Rangers like, a million years ago.”

The ghoul’s shoulders moved as he breathed, but other than that…he could have been chiseled out of stone.

Apprehensive, John shifted his weight. “He turned. I just…I thought you should know.”

There was no response from the gigantic ghoul other than a hardening of his brow.

_Goddamn. This guy is a brick wall._

John spun around to leave and was snagged by the wrist. He looked back to find the ginger ghoul staring at him.

“Did you end it?” he growled in a low rasp.

John couldn’t hold that piercing gaze. He looked down and nodded.

“Stop accosting my employee!” a harsh voice snapped, causing the big ghoul to drop John’s wrist in an instant and straighten. The barkeep sighed, the sound a wet rush of air. “Our business has concluded, and I’m not feeling particularly charitable today. Charon, remove that tightskin from my bar.”

“No need,” John said. “I’m going.” Rubbing his wrist, he walked backwards toward the door, asking, “Where do smoothskins go for a drink around here?”

“Anywhere but here. Join the rest of the hapless humans at the Eisenhower Avenue exit.”

After a few connections via the metro tunnels, John popped out in Alexandria long after the sun had set. Across the boulevard, a flickering sign in blue neon announced that he had reached his destination, a seedy dive bar named _The Blue Brahmin_. Despite its dingy veneer, the establishment was a sizable long, rectangular building with turrets on the roof. Bright worklights plugged into chugging generators kept the entry well-lit.

John crossed the road and ducked inside, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind him. Tubes of blue neon echoed the bar’s name on the inside. Even the bulbs, hung from the ceiling by exposed wires, were blue. The air was stifling, thick with smoke, noise and testosterone. A radio churned out the greatest hits of yesteryear. The bar was packed, lousy with soldiers of both genders – though the women were vastly outnumbered. Half were dressed in fatigues, the rest easily recognizable by the bluish gleam of military issued holotags that matched the _Blue Brahmin’s_ décor.

“To the Enclave!” one man toasted, to which the bar fell silent. “May it burn in Hell for all eternity!” Wild applause erupted, glasses clinked, and people whistled and hollered.

A slight aberrant feeling ran up and down John’s spine, as if he didn’t belong here. The men were all powerfully built and raucous, the women all forces to be reckoned with. His skinny self took residence at a high-topped table facing the entrance, prepping himself to catch a glance at other normal, non-serving folks that might drop by. He parted with a bag of caps for a bottle of some specialty sour brew that tasted faintly of mutfruit and lost himself in it. The next morning, he’d charter a boat going north, skirt the coast and arrive at Diamond City within the week. He snorted and sipped his beer. Going home, it seemed, was far too easy.  

The humidity of the region had forced his wavy hair into haphazard curls. He tied it back with a shoelace usually reserved for tying off his arm. The steel door banged open as he returned to his drink. More soldiers jammed in. Jesus, the Brotherhood must be having one fucking great week. 

One man lingered at the entrance, flanked by a smattering of additional soldiers. He stood stiffly in the doorway, as if debating the risk of entering. He was by-the-book handsome – tall, muscular, with the type of comely face that John had only seen on pre-war movie posters, coupled with saddest eyes he’d ever seen. John recognized the hurt in the soldier’s eyes – he shared it. Their eyes briefly met. The tense solider stood even straighter, his blocky eyebrows rising. Mouth tightening into a scowl, he ripped his gaze from John’s.

Something fell straight through John, dropping from the back of his throat and landing with a not-so-unpleasant thump in his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut as the world spun for a moment, tilting dangerously, a flutter of nausea rising. Composing himself, he swallowed and glanced around, trying to find the man from the doorway once more. John found him leaning against the bar, trying in vain to snag the attention of an overwhelmed bartender. He stared, not able to withstand it. The bridge of the man’s nose was wide, his jaw strong and lips lushly full, hair thick and dark. A heavy layer of stubble covered his cheeks and trailed down his throat. Fresh stiches – synthetic, not thread, the benefit of real medical access – decorated one side of his face.

Mouth gone dry, John moistened it with a hearty swig from his bottle. His heart pounded, each beat echoing loudly in his ears, drowning the music out. Each breath was shallow, his chest weighted down with possible implications.

John had one night left in this life. Tomorrow, he’d be on his way to a lifetime of fulfilling his brother’s wishes and being respectable. This, now, was his last chance to do something insane and unprecedented.

He snagged a server as she went by with an overfilled tray. “I wanna send a shot to the big guy at the bar.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” she yelled over the racket.  

Clarifying, John amended, “The one with the stitches and the angry eyebrows.”

She took his caps and left John to nervously drum his palms on the table. The other chairs at his table had been taken; it was clear that he was here alone. He fished through his pockets and squeezed a packet of Smooch into his mouth, chasing the rancid aftertaste with a long draught of lukewarm beer.

After a long exhale, he searched for the soldier again to find him arguing with the server. The man accepted his surprise drink with apparent confusion, eyes darting about for the location of his admirer.

With a subtle smile, John raised his bottle in the soldier’s direction.


End file.
